


How I Spent My Summer Vacation (And Other Myths)

by scarletjedi



Series: Kurt is a Winchester [1]
Category: Glee, Supernatural
Genre: AU after Glee Season 2, Alternate Season 7 (Supernatural), Complete, Crossover, F/M, M/M, Supernatural Crossover Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the summer after Junior year, Puck and Kurt are sent to Sioux Falls, Puck to his mother's cousin, Sheriff Mills, as punishment for his stint in Juvie in hopes that she will "set him straight," and Kurt to escape the Hockey Team's violence and to learn to Hunt like his mother from his Uncle Bobby. They meet at Singer Salvage, where they're both surprised, yet very pleased, to find a familiar face. A few days later a black impala drives up with two bloody Winchesters and an injured Angel. Then all Hell breaks loose....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Proxydialoge for being the best Beta a girl could ask for. 
> 
> And check out firefox1490's awesome art linked at the end, or on lj HERE: http://firefox1490.livejournal.com/564046.html
> 
> You want more of me? Want to see my ramblings, fan works, and sneak peaks? Or is a story you love not updated when you expect it to be? Check out my [tumblr](scarletjedi.tumblr.com) for status updates and more!

The bus smelled like ass.   
  
Puck sighed and slunk further into his seat, resting his forehead against the window. The sun was on the other side of the bus, so at least the glass was cooler than the air. A full Greyhound bus, no matter how high the air conditioning was turned, would always be too hot. Puck wished he had his sweatshirt; he could pull the hood down over his eyes so, at least, he wouldn’t have to see the old lady staring at him suspiciously from across the aisle.   
  
They passed a sign that read “You Are Now Leaving Ohio! Come Back Real Soon!” and Puck snorted. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to run and never come back, or not leave at all. He certainly wasn’t going to “come back real soon.” His mother had made sure of that.   
  
To say Rina Puckerman had not taken his trip to Juvie with grace would be a massive understatement. After the yelling and the crying and the thrown glassware, while he was locked away, she had called her cousin, Jody Mills, about how to deal with Puck’s “downward spiral.”   
  
Aunt Jody had, apparently, told Rina that his behavior was a symptom of something deeper. Rina had heard “search his room.” So, when Puck returned after his two weeks away, sore and reeling, he had walked into another round of screaming about how he was “shaming the family with your whoring about. I raised a better boy than that, Noah Puckerman.” Stunned, he could only watch as Rina tore through his pool business’s accounts, crying about how her son was “the pool boy slut” she overheard the housewives of Lima talk about every summer.   
  
“That’s it!” She had finally said. “You’re spending the summer with your Aunt Jody. If anyone could straighten you out, it’s her!”   
  
Puck had started to fight back, to say that he had learned his lesson, that Juvie had honestly scared him and that he wanted to be different; he’d gotten as far as opening his mouth before his mother had stormed out and locked him in his room.   
  
_Fuck it,_ he had thought.  _She thinks I’m bad, I’ll give her bad._   
  
His resolve had crumbled as the school year continued, through his relationship with Lauren (not that she’d have anything to do with him, now. She had dumped him when she learned he wouldn’t be around in the summer, telling him to look her up when he got back. He wasn’t sure if he would, yet.), the  thing that was prom, and their loss at Nationals. He ended the summer still trying to prove his badassness, and, to be honest, he was tired of it.   
  
Puck shifted in his seat, biting back a curse as he knocked his knee against his guitar case. There wasn’t really much room for it between his legs and the seat in front of him, but there was no way he was going to put it under the bus; it was the easiest way to get a broken guitar, and now that his pool business was over, (which, in hindsight, was kinda whore-ish in the escort-service-but-really-hookers-kinda-way), he didn’t have the funds to get a new one. And fuck Glee club for making him care, but he was pretty sure losing his guitar would be the last straw.   
  
Thinking of Glee club made Puck shift in his seat. It was hard to admit, (okay, it wasn’t  that  hard to admit to himself. Out loud, however...), that the gleeks were the closest things to friends he had. Finn and he were finally cool again, which was a relief even though he shouldn’t have expected less from the boy who would share even his most favorite toys and would still play with you if you accidentally ran over them with your skateboard and broke them. Quinn was warmer than she had been, but that ship had sailed even before Beth was born, let alone adopted. Sam and Mike were closer to each other than to him, though they were good to sit with. Artie was cool, even when their community service had ended. Boy could play a mean bass. Rachel was annoying, but in less of a scratch-out-your-eyes way and in more of a why-do-I-have-to-wear-a-tie way. Mercedes and he had an understanding; they were cool, but not friends. Santana would sext him, but not sleep with him, and was even less likely to talk to him in public, and Brittany was sweet but he was never sure what she was talking about, and he was used to Finn. And Kurt--  
  
Kurt was cool, a lot cooler than anyone gave him credit for. The guy had gone through so much shit, from Puck and Finn and most of the jocks, and that shithead Karofsky, and he had not only not bowed to them, but had come back with his head held higher than ever, wearing even the Prom Queen crown like real royalty (and how fucked up was that? Dude might be flaming, but he was still a dude). He was snarky as shit, and when he was in the right mood, kept a scathing running commentary under his breath in the back of glee that would have Puck fighting not to laugh. Not to mention he had really grown in the last year, and tended to wear pants that made his ass look _fine._   
  
Not that Puck was gay, or anything. He could just appreciate a great ass. And Kurt had an ass that wouldn’t  _quit._ Just like him. It was, like, a metaphor or some shit.   
  
And if that ass, displayed with Kurt’s new-found confidence, had featured in some of Puck’s more private thoughts, well, that was Puck’s business.   
  
The bus hit a pothole and Puck’s forehead smacked against the window. He swore, holding a hand to his head, and heard the old lady across the way gasp. He sighed internally. He was going from looser Lima, to Podunk South Dakota; he wasn’t even going to see the few friends he had left. He was only an hour into a 16 hour bus ride, and that wasn’t counting the two hour layover in Chicago. And at the end was Sheriff Jody Mills, his Aunt Jody, whose only idea of him came from his mother’s ranting, and was probably going to hate him on sight.   
  
It was official. This summer was going to suck.   
  
***  
  
This summer was going to be amazing.   
  
Kurt Hummel smiled at the screen of his phone as he walked down the steps of the Lima Public Library, mentally drafting his next text to Blaine. His boyfriend was stuck at home for most of the summer, working as a lifeguard at the pool club his parents belonged to, and while it sucked that he wouldn’t be seeing Blaine as much, Kurt was more than happy to think about Lifeguard Blaine, with his tanned skin, and strong arms, and short red shorts.   
  
Kurt tripped on the sidewalk, and could feel his face flushing, weather it was from nearly falling in public, or from thinking of Blaine he wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t his fault he liked muscles and, while he loved Blaine’s fashion sense, he couldn’t help but wish he would show off his body just a bit more. He was his boyfriend, after all. He was allowed to lust after him. Kurt bit his lip. It was just the novelty of it that made it seem a little, well, awkward. Like he was trying too hard.   
  
Paying more attention to the sidewalk, Kurt walked down the dark street. The library was conveniently close to Hummel Tire and Lube, so he had parked at his father’s shop rather than fight with the other cars to get one of the few parking spaces.  _It says something about this town,_ Kurt thought,  _that there are more parking spaces at the Dairy Queen than at the Library._ Normally, he wouldn’t bother with the small building, preferring to buy his books for his iPhone, or Kindle Cloud, but Finn was home moping about Rachel going to Switzerland for two weeks with her dads and therefore leaving him alone, and with Mercedes suddenly busy, the mall held little appeal until the mid-season sales. So, he had gone to the library looking for something to read, carefully avoiding the newspapers and books of mythology and lore. There was nothing new for him to learn there, and only trouble to find, besides.   
  
He was halfway to the shop when he heard the first rustle behind him. He paused, mentally cursing himself for giving into fashion instead of practicality when he was going to be out alone at night. In difference to the weather, he had worn shorts, stylishly tight, and a thin V-neck shirt that would do little in way of protection. True, he had his big knife in his bag, and his backup in his boot, and there was a pouch of salt in the little side pocket, but it wasn’t  _enough._ Thank God he could actually run in these boots if he had to.   
  
He started walking again, hoping that it was just his imagination, but there it was again. A rustling behind him, like--like cloth. A person, then. Or something person-shaped. Kurt stopped, dropped to his knee pretending he had to adjust the tassels on his boots, and palmed his knife. He stood, and looked behind him.   
  
The good news was that it wasn’t a werewolf, or a vampire, or even a skinwalker.   
  
The bad news was that it was the hockey team, duffel bags over their shoulders and sticks in hand. They must have been practicing at the sports complex across the courtyard from the library; they kept it open all year.   
  
“Shit,” Kurt muttered. It wasn’t the numbers, though that was daunting in and of itself. It was the fact that they were human. Monsters were predictable. Humans weren’t. And they couldn’t be hurt in the same ways, not and get away with it, anyway. Still, Kurt wouldn’t be surprised if he was excused for using his knife, considering the menacing way they were approaching.   
  
“All alone, Homo? That doesn’t seem to smart,” Puckhead number 1 said. It was as unoriginal as his mullet, and Kurt would have said as much if he didn’t see Puckhead number 2 behind him, rhythmically tapping his stick against his hand. Kurt backed up a step.   
  
“Aww, don’t run,” said Puckhead number 3. Kurt didn’t know what he was going to say next. But he did know he was outnumbered, outgunned, yet close to safety.   
  
He ran.   
  
He heard one of them cry “get him,” and he rolled his eyes, but put on a burst of speed. With his growth spurt came longer legs, and he pressed them to his advantage now. Between his training with Coach Sylvester for the Cheerios, and the training he still did with his father, he was strong, and fast, and had the endurance.   
  
But the hockey team was used to fast targets, and while they were faster on ice than on foot, they knew how to use their sticks. One caught Kurt around the ankle and he fell, hard, phone skittering out of his hand. Luckily, none of the players noticed it dialing.   
  
Kurt tried to get his feet under him, but another stick--maybe it was the same one, he didn’t know, couldn’t see--came down across his spine and he went down, knowing it was going to bruise at the very least. He tried again, and this time the stick caught his shoulder, and his boot knife clattered to the ground. One of the players laughed, and flicked it away with the stick. Kurt went down, arms coming up to protect his head, and screamed, hoping that someone heard before it was too late. They weren’t going to let him up; he wasn’t going to be able to run. He was out of practice and they were going to kill him. They were laughing, taunting, and egging one of their number on, when Kurt heard it; the cocking of a shotgun.   
  
The blast was loud on the mostly empty street, and so welcome to Kurt’s ears, he nearly cried with relief. His head came up, as the hockey team spun to see Burt Hummel standing in the light cast by the open door to the garage, holding a twelve gauge shotgun. He pumped the barrel again, and pointed it in their direction.   
  
“Next person to raise their stick gets it in the face,” Burt growled.   
  
The team scattered, disappearing into the night, and Burt ran forward to help Kurt to his feet.   
  
“Kurt,” he said, his voice shaking, the cold anger from before gone, replaced by a frantic father. “Are you hurt? They hit you!”   
  
“I’m fine,” Kurt said, his voice cracking. Burt stopped fussing and looked at his son. Kurt’s face crumpled, and he fell forward into his father’s arms. “They were going to _kill_ me,” Kurt said, voice small. “I know they hate me, but  kill  me. I expect it from monsters,” Kurt said. “I mean, they’re  _monsters,_ but--”  
  
“Those assholes are monsters, too. Just a different kind,” But said. “Did they break anything?”   
  
Kurt shook his head. “I’ve gotten worse training.”   
  
Burt raised an eyebrow. “And it’s that attitude that let the bullying go on for so long, you know.”   
  
Kurt rolled his eyes, and pulled away to pick up his bag. “Oh wonderful,” Kurt growled. “They scratched the leather.”   
  
Burt snorted a laugh, raising an arm around Kurt’s shoulders and steered them into the shop. “We’re going to press charges,” Burt said, once inside. Kurt settled into the desk chair, and started to inspect his phone for damage. He raised a hand against Kurt’s protests. “No argument. They were going to kill you just now.” Kurt looked away with a shiver. Burt looked at his son. He took a deep breath.   
  
“I want you to go to your Uncle Bobby’s for the summer.”   
  
“What?” Kurt sat up straight, and powered through the wince when it pulled at his back. “But I can’t go to South Dakota! I have a life here!”   
  
“Generations of teenagers have survived spending summers away,” Burt said, rolling his eyes. “I was going to bring this up to you, anyway. You’re getting older. Bobby still hunts. He can train you better than I can, if you still want training.” Kurt looked away. Before Burt had met Carole, they had talked about Kurt’s hunting.   
  
Kurt’s mother had been a hunter. They told everyone it had been a car accident, but it had been a werewolf that had killed her, and turned her partner (not Burt. Burt had his own hunting buddies, and they had decided when Kurt was born that only one of them would hunt at a time). It had been killed the following moon by Burt and John Winchester, and his two young sons. It had been Sam’s first hunt. Burt had seen how John had talked to his boys, saw the loss of his wife fresh in his eyes though it had been years, and had vowed to continue Kurt’s training only as much as it would help protect his boy, and had retired from hunting himself. When Kurt’s bullying had begun in earnest in High School, Kurt had approached him, asking him to up his skills. Burt had refused then, saying Kurt’s job was to be a teenager, and that he could make the decision on hunting as an adult--that they would redress the issue when Kurt turned eighteen. Kurt had pouted, but accepted the logic. Kurt would be eighteen this summer.   
  
But now they had Carole and Finn in the house. They didn’t know about hunting. How would they explain Kurt disappearing for the summer?   
  
Well, the hockey team had just provided them with a good excuse. Kurt felt himself opening up to the idea despite himself.   
  
“What am I going to say to Blaine?” He asked, instead.   
  
Burt raised an eyebrow. Kurt knew Burt liked Blaine well enough, but things had never really been easy between them, so much as civil. He knew Burt couldn’t care what Blaine would say about it.   
  
“You’re my son,” Burt said. “And that means I’m going to put you first, no matter what anyone says. If he loves you as much as you say he does, he’ll understand and want your safety first.”   
  
Kurt chewed his lip and looked at the floor. A summer of training.   
  
“Does Uncle Bobby still have the salvage yard?” He asked. “Because if he does, I’ll have to start packing now to accessorize with rusted metal.” Kurt smirked at his father. Burt grinned, coming over to hug his son.   
  
“That’s my boy,” he said. “I’ll call Bobby now, and then drive you home.”  
  
“Dad,” Kurt protested. “I can drive.”   
  
“Humor an old man,” Burt said, picking up the phone and pulling out an old and stained leather journal, flipping through the pages. “I’ll drive you back in the morning.”   
  
“Fine,” Kurt said, standing gingerly. His father was probably right, but it galled. “I’ll get my toolkit together, anyway. Might as well start packing for the trip. I don’t want to have to rely on anybody else’s tools.” Kurt waved at his father with his fingers and entered the main garage as he heard his father, behind him.   
  
“Hello, Bobby? It’s Burt. Burt Hummel.”   
  
***  
  
“All right,” Bobby said into the phone. “I’ll expect him day after tomorrow. Take care, Burt.” He hung up the phone, and surveyed the kitchen. If Burt’s son was coming, that meant a house guest, hunter or not. He should probably clean a bit. He took a swig of his beer. It would be a good break when the research made his back act up. He’d tackle it tomorrow; for the moment, he had a visitor.   
  
Sheriff Jody Mills raised her eyebrow at Bobby. “Company?” She asked, and took a sip of her own beer. It was something Bobby appreciated in her; that candid quality that was so typical of good police officers. Fake that, and your work was half done.   
  
“An old hunting buddy. His son is eighteen this summer and Burt wants me to whip him into Hunting shape.” Bobby thought back to what he knew of Burt. Nice guy. Not sure how he got into the business; wasn’t a family death, guy was too cheerful by half. Had met Elizabeth while on a hunt and hit it off. They had brought Kurt around a few times before she had died; Burt had given it up after, one of the few who did, to raise his son. Though, apparently, he wasn’t as out of the life as Bobby had thought.   
  
“And the rest of it?” Jody asked. Bobby scowled. That was something he didn’t appreciate so much; her damned intuition.   
  
“I know the kid. His mom was a Hunter too, and a damned good one. She died ten years back, and that was the last time I saw him, but...” He paused. Took a deep breath. “There are some things you can just  _tell_ at an early age. Hell, take one look at the kid, and you can tell he’s gayer than a basketful of Liberaces, and just as flamboyant, from what I remember.” He held up a hand at Jody’s look. “And don’t give me that look, Sheriff. I couldn’t give two shits if that kid were gay or just wants to be a pretty, pretty princess. But this is a hard life, full of small minded bigots, and if he’s gonna be Hunting, he’s gonna face a lot more shit than he has to.” He sighed. “Though from what Burt just told be, he already does.”   
  
“Bullies?” Jody asked.   
  
“A hockey team-full. Burt had to chase ‘em off with his shotgun.”  
  
Jody whistled. “And he wants to come here? We have a good town, but Sioux Falls isn’t exactly  _progressive._ ”   
  
Bobby shrugged and sat back in his chair. “He’s not coming for the Sadie Hawkins Dance; he’s coming to learn to fight. How to Hunt. Burt thinks getting out of Dodge might be a good idea; out of sight out of mind.” Bobby drained his beer. “And I wouldn’t encourage anybody to enter the life, but that kid was born into it, and if he’s going to be fighting anyway, he might as well learn it right.” He thunked his beer on the table, and Jody passed him a fresh one.   
  
“And what was that saying about your--what? Nephew?”   
  
“Noah, yeah. My cousin’s kid.” Jody picked at the label of her beer. “For years, I only heard from Rina on the High Holy Days,” at Burt’s raised eyebrows, she said. “Yes, she’s Jewish. So is Noah. It’s part of the reason why we don’t really talk. My parents raised me protestant, and she’s never really forgiven that.”   
  
Bobby grunted. He tried not to get involved with people’s religions; which made the last few years more than a little ironic. He felt, as a Hunter, that he knew too much about the things people believed in, or used to believe in, or refused to believe in, to have much stock in religion. Priests were useful, though. For holy water.   
  
“Yeah,” Jody laughed. It sounded a bit bitter to Bobby’s ears. “Rina can be a trip. Anyway, a little over a year ago, she starts calling more often.” Her voice shifted, becoming a bit more nasal. “Noah is acting out. He’s gotten a Mohawk. She’s never seen them, but she’s sure he’s been pierced. She thinks he’s sleeping around.” She took a sip, her voice going back to normal. “That one’s true. He knocked up his best friend’s girl his sophomore year. Then she calls because he’s landed in Juvie, and she doesn’t know what to do. I tell her that there’s some deeper issue and to talk to him. Next thing I know, she asking if Noah can stay for the summer, so I can straighten him out, and something about a Mrs. Robinson, but she was pretty hysterical by that point. I said yes, of course. Family, you know. But now, on top of keeping the town in order, and dealing with all your shit--” Here Bobby snorted, but Jody kept on, “I’ve got to deal with a snotty teen who thinks he’s a badass.”   
  
“Welcome to hell,” Bobby saluted her with his beer, and Jody smirked at him. “Teenagers. I thought I’d finished with that when Sam went off to college.”   
  
“No rest for the wicked, Bobby.” She paused. “I was thinking--”   
  
“No.” Bobby shook his head. He knew that tone. That was the  _I’m going to make a request that you would give your left nut to not do, but you’re going to do it anyway_ tone. He  _hated_ that tone.   
  
“Bobby, you don’t know what I was going to ask.”   
  
“I don’t need to,” Bobby said, standing. He didn’t wobble; he was too much as old hat for that. Too old, anyway. “The answer’s no.” Ain’t no way he was going to take on another teenager. It was bad enough when both his boys were in town, and they were adults, supposedly.   
  
“Don’t make me remind you of how much you owe me, Bobby. Really.”   
  
Bobby sipped his beer. It was nice having the Sheriff on his side and damn useful now that Leviathan was out there, but Mills knew too much to be let loose. Besides, Jody reminded him just a bit of Ellen, and he always knew better than to piss Ellen off. He wasn’t always successful, but he always tried.   
  
“I’m not asking if he could stay here. Just--a job. Something to keep him occupied during the day. You do still run a salvage yard. He can help with that.”   
  
“Jody,” Bobby sighed. “I’m gonna be full up teaching Kurt how to be a Hunter. You really think I can do that with some kid, no offense, running around?”   
  
“Hunting is about discipline, isn’t it?” Jody said, sipping her beer like she had already won. How the hell do women do that? “Noah sounds like the kind of kid who can use a little discipline.”   
  
Bobby scowled. “Not a good idea, Jody.”   
  
“Just try it,” Jody asked. And damn him if he couldn’t say no when Jody talked like that. “And if it fails horribly, I’ll leave him cuffed in my car while I’m at work.”   
  
Bobby snorted. She would, too. For an hour or so, just to scare the kid.   
  
“And who knows,” Jody continued. “Maybe fighting monsters will keep him from fighting everything else in his life.”   
  
Jody stood and Bobby watched as she dumped the empty bottled in the trash and put on her hat. “I’ve got to go. He’ll be at the bus stop in an hour, and I should be there.” She hesitated in the doorway.   
  
_Damn it to hell, woman._ “Give Kurt time to settle in here. Send  _Noah_ around in a couple days, and I’ll find something for him to do.”   
  
“Thanks, Bobby,” She said, and ducked back in to kiss his cheek before leaving in a swirl of khaki and Dove soap.   
  
“And if that kid goes by  _Noah,_ ” Bobby said to the empty kitchen. “I’ll eat my bibles. All twenty-nine translations.”   
  
***  
  
It was dark when the Greyhound finally arrived in Sioux Falls. Puck waited until the bus stopped, and the people around him stood and shifted and start to file out before he moved, uncurling himself from around his guitar. He lost the suspicious old lady in Chicago, but picked up--get this--a  _nun_ _,_ who started and crossed herself when Puck stretched his arms up. Puck didn’t flinch away from her, but it was a near thing. He wasn’t bad, certainly not anything to be warded against. True, Puck’s pretty sure he went against everything the nun stands for, like, he’s the anti-nun. He wondered, idly, while waiting for her to make her way off the bus, how she would react to him being Jewish, as well. Maybe a black hole would form, right here at the bus depot. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about his summer sucking so hard.   
  
Puck was one of the last people off the bus, moving stiffly as he carried his guitar in front of him, and his backpack was heavy over his left shoulder. Somebody had unloaded the undercarriage, and there are a few unclaimed bags lying on the ground, including Puck’s.  Which is good, he thought as he picked it up.  _ It would suck to have to get all new stuff. _  
  
The depot was mostly empty. Which, you know, makes sense for ass o’clock at night. He headed towards the depot building, wondering how he’s going to find his Aunt Judy. Last time he saw her, he was, like, 4, and he didn’t quite remember what she looked like. And, unless his mom sent a picture, she wouldn’t recognize him.   
  
“Noah?” he heard. He looked and felt his heart stutter, just a bit, with knee-jerk fear. The speaker was a woman, a  _Sheriff,_ still in uniform, though her hat was missing. Her hair was brown, like his mother’s, and pulled back from her face. She was looking at him expectantly, the same way his arresting officer had; _I know I’m asking a question, but we both know the answer to this, kid._ Puck felt his stomach sink. This summer was going to  _suck._   
  
“Yeah,” Puck said. He cleared his throat; his voice was a little rough. “Aunt Jody?”   
  
“One and only,” Jody said. She looked him up and down, and Puck tried not to squirm. He could imagine all the things his mother had said, and bit back the questions that would let him know just how much she had poisoned the well. It was too late--too early?--to deal with Rina Puckerman’s paranoia.   
  
Jody smiled suddenly, and Puck blinked. It changed her entire face, and Puck felt the knot of tension in his back ease, just a smidgen. “Well,” She said. “You’ve certainly grown.”   
  
Puck snorted out a laugh, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. “Had to happen sometime, right?”   
  
Jody narrowed her eyes at him, but Puck didn’t sense the same wariness as before. Still, he sifted under her scrutiny before Jody gestured for him to give her a bag to carry, and follow him to her car.   
  
“I got it,” Puck said, shifting his grip. “Really.” Jody gave him that look again, but opened the trunk of her--Puck stopped. Jody looked at him and laughed. She took his bags and put them in the back of the Sheriff’s car.   
  
“It’s the only car I got,” she said. “So relax. You’re family. I promise to only make you ride in the back if you really piss me off.” She slammed the trunk and Puck sank into the front passenger seat. The console was bigger than any car he had been in, covered with bits of tech from knobs and speakers to what looked to be a laptop. Jody climbed in behind the wheel. “Don’t touch anything,” she said. Puck just nodded.   
  
Jody started the car, and started to talk as they drive away from the depot. “It’s about a twenty minute drive to my house,” she said. “We’ll get you settled in for the night, and can talk more about what to expect while you’re here, tomorrow.”   
  
Puck nodded again and Jody arched an eyebrow. “You know,” she started. “From what your mother told me, I thought you’d be louder.”   
  
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Puck muttered. He mentally slapped himself for mouthing back; you don’t mouth back to a uniform, but he had been on a bus for way too long getting stared at by old women and nuns and it was too early or too late or  both,  and Puck just couldn’t bring himself to really care.   
  
But Jody just nodded. “Aint’ that the truth.”   
  
They rode in silence back to her house. Once they were inside, Jody let Puck to the guest room. The walls were painted blue, a shade like a little kid would like, though the furniture was adult-sized and obviously from IKEA. He placed his bags on his bed, and leaned his guitar against the wall.   
  
“I’ll let you settle in for the night,” Jody said. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Things happen pretty early around here, generally, but I got the late shift tomorrow, so I’ll be here when you wake up.”   
  
Puck nodded, his mind already blanking for sleep, as he pulled his things from his pockets.   
  
“Goodnight, Noah,” Jody said, and Puck’s mouth made his decision for him.   
  
“‘s Puck,” he said. Jody paused.   
  
“What was that?”   
  
“My friends call me Puck,” he said, the words coming in a rush. They had called him Noah at Juvie, too, and all he could think was  _they don’t have the right._ “Mom and Nana call me Noah. But I hate that name.”   
  
Jody nodded, slowly. “Alright. Goodnight, Puck.”   
  
“Goodnight,” Puck said. “And Aunt Jody?” She turned around again, looking, to Puck, a bit annoyed. He shifted awkwardly. “Thanks.”   
  
“You’re family,” She said, and left. Puck looked around the strange room, thought about unpacking his bags, but instead decided to shower and dug into one for fresh boxers. He had to get the stink of bus off of him.   
  
After his shower, Puck fell face first onto the bed, and slept until he was awoken by the sun shining in the window. He winced away from the light where it dazzled his eyes, even though they were closed. Pulling back into shadow, he opened his eyes and looked at the clock. 8 a.m. Puck groaned and covered his face with his hands. He never slept late at someone else’s house. He never could. Even when he really wanted to. He sat up. Might as well get this over with.   
  
He might be turning over a new leaf, and everything, but he was still a badass. And badasses never backed down from anything; especially not slightly scary aunts.   
  
Once dressed, Puck made his way down stairs and into the kitchen, where Jody was sitting, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, dressed in an old men’s t-shirt and jeans. It hit Puck hard that his Uncle was dead; he remembered his mother telling him about it when it happened, that they had a closed casket funeral, but had never expected to see the evidence in front of him. He paused in the doorway. Jody looked up.   
  
“Morning, Puck.” She said. “There’s coffee, there. Eggs and cereal if you want breakfast.”   
  
“Thanks,” he said, and fixed himself a mug of coffee, and a bowl of cereal, not quite ready to cook.   
  
“You’re up earlier than I expected,” Jody said once Puck sat. Puck shrugged, shoveling the cereal into his mouth.  
  
Jody sighed. “I’ll be honest with you, Puck,” Jody said. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and a lot of it wasn’t very good.”   
  
Puck stopped eating, swallowing hard and putting the spoon down, his cereal half-eaten. Here it comes.   
  
“But if there’s one thing I’ve learned doing this job, in this town, is that sometimes you can’t listen to what other people say. Sometimes, you have to experience it for yourself. So far,” Jody went on, “I’ve seen nothing that matches what your mother has told me, except for that hair,” she said. Puck smiled ruefully and ran a hand over his head.  
  
“What this comes down to, is that I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’ve fucked up.” Puck’s head jerked up in surprise. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to adults cursing, his mother did it all the time, but it seemed strange coming from Aunt Jody, who was a sheriff and kept such a nice house and wasn’t judging him. “But that’s what being a teenager is about. Learning lessons.” She gave him that narrow look again. “And you have learned them, haven’t you.”   
  
“Yeah,” Puck said. Juvie--he was never putting himself in a position to back there, to be locked away at all. And nothing hurt worse than Beth. “Not that anybody in Lima really notices.” Not even everyone in Glee had noticed. Finn had. And Santana. And he was almost sure Brittany had. Kurt had even said that he was impressed by Puck’s maturity--by which he meant acceptance of his social downfall, but still.   
  
Jody hummed. “Well, then maybe it’s a good thing you’re not in Lima.”   
  
“Yeah,” Puck said. “Maybe.”   
  
“Now, business,” Jody said, putting down her coffee mug. “As Sheriff, I get some leeway with my schedule, but I still have to be there. I’m not going to be around all that often.”   
  
Puck nodded, feeling his heart sink a little. Well, maybe he’d get a chance to really commune with his guitar.   
  
“So, I’ve a job for you.”   
  
Puck blinked. “What kind of job?”   
  
Jody smiled. “I think you’ll like it. It’s with Singer Salvage, on the edge of town. Bobby’s a friend of mine, for all that he’s a real son-of-a-bitch sometimes. It’ll get you outside, and keep you moving, and put some money in your pocket.”   
  
Puck frowned. He was pretty sure he’s seen horror movies that start in places called things like “Singer Salvage.” “And he’s not gonna mind having some ‘punk kid’ hanging around all summer?” At Jody’s look, Puck said. “I know what I look like, you know.”   
  
Jody smiled. There was something devious about that smile. “He’ll deal. And so will you. Besides,” Jody says. “He’s putting up another boy about your age this summer. Who knows, maybe you’ll make friends.”   
  
“Yeah,” Puck said.  _Not a chance,_ Puck thought.   
  
“Good.” Jody said. “You start Friday.”   
  
***  
  
It was a fourteen hour drive from Lima, Ohio to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Kurt made it in thirteen, and he hoped that thirteen wasn’t one of the bad luck charms that would count as some kind of omen for the summer. That was the worst thing about being half-trained; enough knowledge to know that some superstitions were true, but not enough to know which.   
  
Kurt turned down the driveway, past the sign that said  _Singer Salvage_ in large, uneven letters. The house was at the end of the lane, next to the garage that held the sign aloft. Kurt parked the Nav and looked at the building; it was old and worn, but well patched. He was suddenly very glad that he had left most of his designer clothes at home, packing mostly inexpensive (yet still well-fitting) jeans and t-shirts. And Kurt wasn’t an idiot; he knew that hunting and fashion didn’t mix, and knew the importance of dressing the part, no matter what the part was. And this far from Lima, it wasn’t like anyone would know if his  _part_ wasn’t a walking fashion show.   
  
It was freeing, in a way. It wasn’t that Kurt didn’t love fashion as much as he said he did, but life in Lima was all about appearances and keeping up his fashionista persona was hard work. It would be nice to let his hair down, so to speak, without having to worry about anyone asking him if he was okay, or telling him to just be himself.   
  
Realizing he had been staring at the house for longer than he probably should have been Kurt shook himself and got stiffly out of the car; thirteen hours was a long time in the car for anyone. He was just getting one of his bags out of the car, he had three, when the front door opened and an older, bearded man walked onto the porch.   
  
Kurt smiled. The man looked just the same. “Uncle Bobby!” He grinned, and walked over to say hello.   
  
Bobby smiled back, looking a little like he hadn’t had a lot to smile about recently, and opened his arms for a hug. Bobby was warm, and distantly familiar like most things from his childhood, but he still smelled of gun oil, books, and whiskey, and Kurt felt himself relaxing. “Good to see ya, Kurt,” Bobby said, and took a step back, holding Kurt at arm’s length. “You must hear it a lot, but damn, you look like your mom.”   
  
Kurt smiled, but it wasn’t as sad as it would have been a few years ago. After all, he loved his mother, he always will, but his dad and he had Carole, now, and the hole in his family was mending. “I get “sound like” more than “hear like,” but yeah, Dad’s mentioned.”   
  
Bobby nodded like he had heard what Kurt didn’t say, and started down the porch steps. “Let’s get your stuff inside, and I’ll tell you about your training, and you can tell me about those bullies your father mentioned.”   
  
Kurt groaned. “I’m sick of talking about insignificant assholes that aren’t worth the breath they breathe,” he grumbled.   
  
“And yet, you’re here,” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow at Kurt. “And not there.”   
  
Kurt sniffed. “I am here to learn to hunt. Like my  _mother._ They just happened at just the right time to make it seem like I’m running.”   
  
Bobby snorted and lifted the two other bags. “Ain’t nothing wrong with running, kid,” he said.   
  
Kurt closed up the Nav and followed Bobby into the house. He was led up the stairs to the second floor, around a winding hallway and into what was obviously a guest bedroom. It had a twin bed that had seen better days, a scarred desk, and a wardrobe that looked older than the house--and not in an antique kind of way. However, it was clean, the linens freshly washed and the floor swept, and it was enough to keep Kurt from wincing when he put his bag on the bed and the mattress squeaked. Bobby put the other two bags by the wardrobe, and looked Kurt over.   
  
“Come on to the kitchen,” Bobby said. “I know a bit about teenage boys, and you must be hungry.”   
  
Kurt’s stomach growled and he covered it with a hand. He laughed, a bit sheepish, but Bobby just led the way back downstairs and into the large avocado-green kitchen. Kurt paused in the doorway, looking at the walls in horror, before shaking himself. He was a guest in this home, and it wasn’t his place to criticize. He cast another glance and wondered how just how long he’d hold out.   
  
“You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?” Bobby asked, his head in his fridge.   
  
“No,” Kurt said. “Everyone seems to think I am, though.” Bobby looked at him, and Kurt smiled his best earnest smile. “Oh, well I’m gay, you know. So that must mean that I’m like a girl, and everyone knows girls live on air and diet soda. A-ha!” He finished with a fake titter, and held the face for a moment, before his resolve broke and he laughed at the look of horror on Bobby’s face. “Lima,” Kurt enunciated through a smirk, “Is full. Of idiots.”   
  
“We live in a world of idjits,” Bobby said, and pulled a Tupperware container out of the freezer. He popped the lid to show Kurt the lasagna, and put it in the microwave.   
  
“Truer words,” Kurt said softly.   
  
Bobby fished in the refrigerator again. “I got beer, more beer, or milk.”   
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “You’d really give me beer?”   
  
Bobby shrugged. “You’re going to be Hunting. A man can Hunt, a man can drink. But only,” Bobby pointed his finger, “in my house.”   
  
“Milk’s fine,” Kurt said. “I’ve done the drinking-for-emotional-fortitude thing. I’m not keen to repeat the experience.”   
  
“Oh?” Bobby asked, pulling out the milk. Kurt waved a hand.   
  
“I went to school dressed like a wino, and puked on my guidance councilor's shoes.” He paused. “Granted, they were ugly shoes, and I thought she was Bambi at the time, but still.”   
  
Bobby put Kurt’s drink on the table. “And school was that terrifying?”   
  
Kurt looked at his hands. “Sometimes. Before Glee, I was tossed in dumpsters every day. I’ve had swirlies and atomic wedgies. I once spent half the day locked in a locker. I’ve been hit by every flavor of slushie. I’ve been pushed, kicked, shoved, and threatened. They’ve called me pansy, and queer, and homo, and faggot. And when they don’t, especially when they don’t because I don’t see it coming, I’m treated as lesser. Or invisible. Or as a girl. Even the teachers, one calls me Ladyface, and another--my Glee advisor, by the way--tells me that I’m imagining things. Or he’ll let Rachel yell at him over nothing, but if I have a legitimate issue, I get sent to the principal.” Kurt drank his milk and the microwave beeped. Bobby didn’t move, just looked at Kurt with old eyes. “So yeah. School can be terrifying.”   
  
“And you wanna Hunt?”   
  
“Monsters you can fight, and win.” Bobby nodded after a long moment, and put the lasagna on a plate for Kurt. He handed it over, and sat down with a beer for himself.   
  
“Your Dad told me you’ve been keeping up with the physical training.”   
  
Kurt nodded. “It’s been easy. When I was on the Cheerios, we had mandatory mixed martial arts lessons. I kept the lessons when I left the squad. And Dad and I still have our “boy’s night” at the range, just to keep my accuracy up.” He shrugs. “If anyone asks, I tell them I was busy with gay stuff. They don’t ask any farther than that.”   
  
Bobby snorted. “Well, I’m gonna wanna see where you are. We can do that tomorrow. But we’ll be focusing on book-learning at first, either way. A Hunter’s greatest asset is information. And the ability to bullshit convincingly,” Bobby paused with the beer in his hand. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got that covered.”   
  
Kurt smiled a “who? me?” smile and polished off the pasta. With his father’s heart healthy diet, it had been too long since he’s had meat sauce on anything.   
  
“But you’ll get some practice at Hunting around people who don’t know.” Bobby scowled. “Sheriff Mills has her cousin’s kid in town, and she blackmailed me into giving him a job. I give him a week before I scare him off, but until then, you’ll hit the books and learn your double-talk.”   
  
Kurt repressed a sigh. More hiding. Wonderful. But he nodded, and stood to put his plate in the sink. It didn’t take long to wash a plate, a fork, and a cup, and when he was done, he excused himself to call his father, to let him know he’d arrived safe.   
  
“Try and get some sleep, if you can,” Bobby said. “We’ll be starting early tomorrow.”   
  
As he walked up the stairs he felt vaguely guilty for not calling as soon as he got there, but really, he had arrived early and his father wasn’t going to be expecting the call yet. So he was fine.   
  
He texted Blaine before calling his father, letting him know he was safe, and that if Blaine wanted to talk, to text Kurt back and he’d call when he was off the phone with his father. He hung up, placing the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, so he could hear the chime. He went to the bathroom for his evening skin care routine. He changed into his pajamas. He crawled into bed, suddenly exhausted. He woke up as the sun rose into his window.   
  
Blaine had never texted.   
  
***  
  
Dean wasn’t okay, and Sam didn’t know how to fix it. Sam rested leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting the familiar rumble and sway of the Impala lull him. Dean was driving them home from another hunt, a routine haunting that had quickly become nasty when it turned out to be three ghosts instead of one, and they were both sore from digging, not to mention the aching bruises from being thrown around by the spirits. After everything that happened, they were working more like a team than ever, but--this job shouldn’t have been as hard as it was. Those spirits wouldn’t have caused them half that trouble even two years ago.   
  
True, they were getting old. Dean was over thirty, and Sam would be there in only a couple more years, (if they lived that long) and they had taken more physical abuse than anyone he had known, Hunter or not. But--this was something more. This was something-- _broken._   
  
When Castiel had died, and boy did he know what kinda shit Dean would give him if he knew Sam thought that, that it was a  _death,_ even if Dean talked that way himself (and Sam knew, knew, that Dean didn’t believe it, and was trying, in his own way, to make things easier to bear)--when Castiel had died, Dean had shut down. Bottled it up the way he did all big emotions, until they nearly died and something cracked and then Dean was crying in the middle of a field, covered in blood and ichor, clutching a tan trench-coat.   
  
But then again, Sam wasn’t okay, either. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a better angle to relieve the pressure on his lower back, or ease the ache in his legs; he was used to the confines of the Impala, had grown into and around the car like a tree grows around a fence, but there was no substitute for a bed long enough for his limbs.   
  
Sam had patched and pulled his mind together as much as he could after the walls came crumbling down, but it was like trying to walk a line with holographic goggles; he knew reality was there, but could only hope he hit it when he put his foot down. Dean knew--he had helped Sam learn how to cope--but Dean was acting like he couldn’t tell Sam was cracking further every day, so Sam tried harder, hid it deeper, and wondered how things could get so fucked so quickly, skittering away from thoughts of destiny and the notion that these events couldn’t be avoided.   
  
It was getting harder to hide the crazy. Sam rubbed his palm absently. Something had to give.   
  
Dean hadn’t said a word since they drove away from the Hunt, turning up the radio.  _Thunderstruck_ growled from the radio, but Dean didn’t bob his head, didn’t tap along on the wheel, and didn’t sing under his breath like he did when he thought Sam was asleep.   
  
Castiel was dead, Sam was crazy, and Dean just stopped. Sam didn’t know how to restart his brother, and was just idly wondering if it wouldn’t take some divine intervention, and how weird was their lives that  _that_ wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, when Dean swore and sat up straighter behind the wheel. Sam gave up on pretending to sleep, and looked through the front window.   
  
They had been squatting in an old farmhouse, dilapidated and infested, but it had a working water pump and a mostly intact roof. Now, however, the roof was mostly gone, a large hole had punched its way through, leaving the edges charred. What little glass was left in the windows was gone and, as Dean brought the car to a stop, a dangling piece of shingle finally gave up and fell.   
  
“The hell?” Sam asked, and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing hard against his palm. The pain shot through him like ice in his veins, and he felt the world settle. He looked and felt his heart skip. No way--it couldn’t--his lifeline couldn’t fail now. There’s no way he could be seeing this, he--  
  
Dean made a broken sound next to him and Sam realized  _Dean saw it, too._ Sam wasn’t crazy, or, hadn’t turned that final corner. Then the full meaning of what he saw settled in, and Sam scrambled for the door. He had to get out; he had to see before Dean did, because if Sam was right--if Sam was right, it could kill him.   
  
But Dean was faster, and Sam tried to push himself, but still ran into the house after Dean, nearly running him over when Dean stopped still.   
  
Lying on the floor, sprawled at almost inhuman angles and covered with soot and nothing else, was Castiel.   
  
Sam looked him over, ignoring the squiggles at the edges of his vision; Castiel looked better than the last time Sam had seen him, which wasn’t saying much. He no longer had black veins crawling up his neck and across his face, and he was, well, in one piece.   
  
He looked strangely--human.   
  
Sam found himself fascinated by the dark, tender skin around Castiel’s eyes; had he always had that? Did it always look so--  
  
Dean turned and pushed past Sam, out the door. Sam almost followed, but he knew Dean wouldn’t stray far. Not with Castiel here. He would yell and break things and threaten, but never leave. Sam made his way over to Castiel, treading carefully around traps he was sure weren’t there, but he figured he’d better be safe than sorry.   
  
Carefully, Sam started to move him, relieved to find that Castiel was living-warm, and tried to arrange him more comfortably, rolling him as best he could onto the closest sleeping bag. There were no obvious wounds, but Castiel was unconscious, and had been for how long Sam didn’t know, and Sam wanted Dean to come back.   
  
And Dean did, faster than Sam had anticipated. He paused for a moment when he saw Sam touching Castiel, but walked over quickly enough, and draped something over Castiel. When Dean backed away, Sam saw what it was.   
  
“You kept his coat?” Sam said. His voice croaked and cracked in the middle. He wondered how long it had been since he last talked. A while.   
  
“Knew he’d need it,” Dean said. And that was that.   
  
Except not quite. Dean had a wild look in his eye, a kind Sam hadn’t seen since Alistair, and he had a muscle in his jaw twitching. His hand shifted restlessly, like he was trying to grasp something, and Sam was pretty sure it was a drink. Dean’s eyes never left Cas’s face.  
  
“I’m going to get some clean water,” Sam said quietly, and left the house for the water pump by the barn, pausing only to pick up the sauce pot they had been using for a wash bowl. It was a warm summer night, cool enough to keep them from sweating, but warm enough to set off the buzz and chirp of mosquitoes and crickets.   
  
Sam placed the pot next to him, and pumped the handle a few times to warm up the pump, and wash out any stagnant water. The water pumped clean after a few spurts, and Sam put the pot under the spout and had it filled in two pumps. He caught a little water on his hands and splashed his face, wiping over his hair, and down his neck. It felt better than it had any right to, and Sam wished they had found a place with a working shower.   
  
_So Cas is back,_ Sam thought, leaning against the pump for a moment.   
  
_You’ll believe he’s real, and you won’t believe me?_ Sam closed his eyes, tensing.  _Closing your eyes won’t make the monsters go away, Sammy._   
  
Sam looked and Lucifer waggled his fingers at him, smug little grin firmly in place.  _You can’t get rid of me so easily,_ he said.  _You’re too smart to believe that._   
  
“Smart has nothing to do with it,” Sam muttered. He grabbed the pot and fairly ran back into the farmhouse. He wasn’t followed.   
  
At first, it didn’t look like Dean had moved. But when Sam looked, he saw Dean had reached out, and was holding Castiel’s hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. Castiel shifted, the first movement Sam had seen, and blinked his eyes. His mouth moved, forming words without sound.  _Dean,_ he said, and tightened his fingers around Dean’s.   
  
“Cas,” Dean said, and didn’t move.   
  
_This is it,_ Sam realized, suddenly.  _The breaking point._   
  
Castiel closed his eyes and the tension left his body. Asleep, again. Sam couldn’t help but think they were living on borrowed time as of this moment.   
  
“We can’t leave him here,” Sam said.   
  
“I know,” Dean said.   
  
“We need to go someplace to regroup and heal. Figure out what happened.”   
  
“There’s nothing to figure out,” Dean said. He stood.   
  
“Dean--”  
  
“We’ll head to Bobby’s in the morning,” Dean said. Sam watched Dean, but Dean never looked away from Castiel. Sam bit his lip and watched Dean. Dean glanced at him and rolled his eyes. The move was so  _normal_ Sam almost smiled. “All of us.”   
  
“Good,” Sam said.   
  
“Bitch.” Dean said over his shoulder, and splashed water over his own face. “Get some fucking sleep.”   
  
“Night, Jerk.” Sam said. He stretched out on his sleeping bag. He was too tall, still, but at least when he hung over the edges, his limbs weren’t actually hanging. He closed his eyes, and tried to sleep, already impatient to leave behind the old farmhouse with the hole in its roof and the iron dust shaped like Angel’s Wings.   
  
***  
  
When Puck awoke on Friday, he found a missed call and a voice message from Jody, telling him that she was caught up at work and couldn’t drive him over to the salvage yard. There was a bike in the garage he could use, just don’t forget his key. He groaned and flopped back onto his bed. Great.   
  
He dressed and made his way to the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee while he waited for his bagel to toast. He ate standing up against the counter, his mind playing out scenarios of how it could go, including one that he was pretty sure was actually the plot of  _The Sandlot._   
  
Unable to put it off any longer, Puck rinsed his mug, grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys, and dug the bike out of the garage. It was a men’s mountain bike, at least ten years old and covered in dust. It had probably belonged to Jody’s husband. Feeling only a little weird about using a dead man’s bike, Puck rode off down the road Jody had told him would take him over the bridge and out to Singer Salvage.   
  
Puck pulled up in front of the gates to the yard. He was breathing heavy, shirt damp in the growing morning heat. Wiping the sweat from his face, he looked over the property.   
  
It looked--like a salvage yard; like someplace the fight club would have met. Puck shifted; the thought left an odd taste in his mouth, something half-wistful, half-shame. He got off the bike. There was no reason to stand there. Badasses didn’t hover in doorways. Badasses didn’t hesitate.   
  
Puck ignored the voice that said  _that_ attitude might be the cause of his problems. It sounded too much like his mother for him to listen to.   
  
As he passed through the gates, something glinted on the fence, the flash catching his eye. Puck stopped, and looked closer.   
  
The fence was twofold, metal chain-link in front of tall wood planks. There were bits and pieces of metal woven through the chain-link, forming patterns. Symbols. They looked old, too, worn by weather. Puck had seen pictures of things like this before, found object art made by hippies to make things like abandoned buildings look pretty ’n’ shit. The part that caught Puck’s eye was part of a pattern that looked a hellova lot like Hebrew. So much so, that as Puck walked the bike up the drive, he wondered what kind of salvage yard would need a Hebrew blessing of protection hidden in found object art on its front gate.   
  
Puck rounded the corner and saw the house ahead. There was music playing on an old stereo on the front porch, a song Puck recognized as one Carole would play when he was younger and over at Finn’s house;  _Blue Collar Man_ by Styx. Movement drew his eye, and he saw a slender man dressed in mechanics blues, moving his hips to the beat as he was bent over the engine of a car. His face was hidden from Puck, and Puck took a moment to \-- _ahem_ \-- appreciate--the way the blues stretched tight, emphasizing the way the muscles moved as the man danced. Puck smirked. It was a nice ass; tight, and firm, and familiar--  
  
_Wait._   
  
Puck knew that ass.   
  
_“Kurt?”_   
  
The ass froze, and Kurt Hummel pulled his head out of the car’s engine. His hair was wilder than Puck had ever seen it, he had a streak of grease across one cheek, and his eyes were wide with surprise. His mouth fell open and Puck had to swallow. He looked like one of Puck’s favorite fantasies.   
  
_“Puck?_ _”_ Kurt’s voice was high, and a bit strangled. He coughed and turned away, hitting the power button on the stereo with enough force to knock it backwards. “Shit,” he muttered, and Puck raised an eyebrow, feeling his smirk return. He would never get tired of seeing Kurt caught unawares. Kurt dropped the wrench he held on the porch, and turned back to Puck, nervously smoothing his hair. Puck considered telling Kurt that he had just smeared more grease into the style, but decided against it. If he played his cards right, he would get to see Kurt freak about it later.   
  
“What are you--” Kurt started, and then stopped closing his eyes. “You’re the Sheriff’s nephew, aren’t you?”   
  
“Cousin, technically,” Puck said, “but yeah. And you’re the boy Aunt Jody was hoping I’d make friends with.” He leaned the bike against a dusty old Ford, and saw a smile start on Kurt’s face.   
“I dunno,” Kurt teased. “We have so little in common.”   
  
Puck snorted. “Yeah. It’s not like we share any hobbies. Or interests. Or friends.”   
  
Kurt laughed. “Well,” he said. “I was ready to face this summer alone, but it’ll be nice to have a friend around, after all.”   
  
“Fuck, yeah,” Puck said, and leaned on the Ford himself. “So what brings you here?”   
  
Kurt shrugged. “Bobby’s my uncle. Dad suggested staying for the summer, and I agreed.   
  
Puck raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d want to say in Lima, closer to your boy.”   
  
Kurt’s face fell, and he turned away, rubbing his arm. The motion pushed up the short sleeve of the jumper and revealed a dark purple bruise. Puck was at Kurt’s side before he knew he was moving, pushing up the sleeve himself to see the injury. It was long, and had obviously been made with a stick of some kind.  
  
“Who?” he asked.   
  
“Cooper,” Kurt said.   
  
“Cooper came after you?”   
  
Kurt pulled his arm away. “No. The  _hockey team_ came after me. Cooper was just the one who left  _that._ ”   
  
Puck let his arm fall. He felt disconnected with his body, his fury rushing in his ears like his pulse, and he felt the need to lash out, to hit something. There was a sound like metal buckling, then pain in his toe. It was enough to break the haze. He looked at the dented car door in front of him. He had kicked it, in his anger. There were hands on his shoulders, pulling, and he let them walk him back. Someone was speaking, and--Kurt. Kurt was talking to him, pulling him away.   
  
“...don’t need to break something, damn it, Puck.”   
  
“Sorry,” Puck said. His voice shook. “It just--I thought it was getting better. We put the fear of Puckasaurus into those fucks.”   
  
“They don’t learn,” Kurt said. “Especially not when they travel in packs. And flying off like this is why you’re here, isn’t it?”  
  
Puck scowled.  _Yeah, but--_ “You’re my boy, Kurt. Nobody hurts you.”   
  
Kurt snorted and let Puck go. “I’m a big boy, Puck. I can take care of myself.”   
  
“Not saying you can’t,” Puck said, rolling his shoulders and trying to settle. He could still feel where Kurt has his hands. His boy was stronger than he looked. “I’m saying I should have been there to have your back. You don’t  _have_ to fight alone.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Not anymore.”   
  
Kurt looked away, and Puck was pretty sure the pink in his cheeks wasn’t from the sun. “Thank you, Puck.”   
  
Puck shrugged again, but stood a little taller. Kurt had gone from being the only one fighting to having other people fighting his battles. This was probably the first time somebody offered to stand with him, and not for him.   
  
A screen door slammed, and Puck turned back to the house. And older man, younger than Puck expected but still grey, stood on the porch scowling from underneath a trucker hat. Puck tried not to shift. There was something about the guy that reminded him of Burt Hummel--and especially after everything that happened with Kurt’s bullying,  _everybody_ knew not to piss off Burt.   
  
Singer spoke. “You must be Mills’s nephew.” His voice was exactly what Puck expected, rough and tough and slightly pissed. Puck guessed he wasn’t too keen on having two teenage boys underfoot, even if Kurt was his nephew.   
  
“Yes, sir.” Puck said, and stuck out a hand trying to remember everything about polite behavior he had ever heard from Coach Beiste. “Noah Puckerman. Everybody calls me Puck.”   
  
Bobby looked at the hand, not taking it. Puck refused to take it back, refused to fidget. Badasses didn’t fidget. Especially not when channeling his best Rachel-Berry-if-she-wasn’t-crazy-oh-and-also-a-dude. He heard Kurt behind him.   
  
“Puck is from Lima, too. He goes to school with me,” Kurt said. “We’re in Glee together.”   
  
“And football, for a hot minute.” Puck said. “The dancing was kinda lame, but my boy can kick.”   
  
“Didn’t hurt that I won your only game that season,” Kurt said, and Puck could hear the smirk in Kurt’s voice.   
  
“Puck, huh?” Singer said, finally taking Puck’s hand. Singer’s hand was calloused and strong, but he didn’t try to crush Puck’s hand like some guys did; like they had something to prove. Singer didn’t need to. Mentally, Puck bowed low. He was in the presence of an original badass. “Interesting name.”   
  
“Football,” Puck said. Shrugged.   
  
“And mischief, from what I hear,” Singer said.   
  
Puck swallowed. He had been anticipating this question. He spent a long time thinking about what to say. He hoped Singer believed him. “Teenagers can be stupid, sir,” he said. “But sometimes, it’s the only way to learn. I’m not proud of what I did, or who I was, but I am trying to do better.”   
  
“And he is,” Kurt said. Puck looked over his shoulder, and Kurt shrugged. It was an elegant move, despite the grease and blues. “I’ve noticed,” Kurt said.   
  
“The only one,” Puck muttered under his breath. He looked back at Singer.   
  
Singer’s expression hadn’t changed. Puck doubted it ever did, but there was something  lighter there.   
  
“What do you know about cars?” Singer asked.   
  
“Two years of auto shop,” Puck said. “B both times.”   
  
Singer nodded. “I just got a new batch of Junkers in. You can help Kurt process them. He’ll show you what to look for. Start with that, and we’ll go from there.” He turned to go, stopped, turned back. “I’ll be in my office,” he said to Kurt.   
  
“Okay, Uncle Bobby,” Kurt said.   
  
“Thank you, sir,” Puck called. Singer raised an eyebrow at him, and Puck raised one back.  _What?_ he thought.  _I have manners, even If I pick and choose when to use them._   
  
But Singer smirked at him. “Call me Bobby, kid,” he said, turning back to the house. He called back over his shoulder. “I ain’t ever been a ‘sir.’”   
  
The screen door slammed again, and Puck looked over at Kurt, who was watching with a bemused expression.   
  
“He likes you,” Kurt said. “I can tell.”   
  
Puck snorted. “Yeah, well, tell me  how you can tell, and I’ll be happy.”   
  
Kurt just laughed, and briefly pressed a hand to Puck’s arm as he passed. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you a pair of overalls.”   
  
Puck watched Kurt’s ass as he walked away for as long as he dared before following. The summer was starting to look up. 


	2. The Boys are Back in Town

Bobby watched from the window as Puck and Kurt emerged from his garage, Puck now dressed in worn and stained cover-ups. Puck was holding the front away from his chest, an exaggerated frown on his face. Kurt was laughing, head thrown back and loud enough that Bobby could just hear it through the glass. It was good to see the kid laugh. In the little time Kurt had been with Bobby, Bobby had seen him smirk, smile, and grin, but never with any genuine amusement.   
  
It was a goddamn travesty. It was one thing for old fucks like him to be cynical assholes. It was something else completely to be that hard before you could even buy a drink. He’d seen it happen to Sam and Dean, for all he tried to stop John from completely fucking them over. He saw it in Kurt, now; that wearied dark humor one gets with the darkness hanging around every corner. Sam had had that, especially at the end, leaking from his mouth whenever his father was near, resentful of their lifestyle. And, despite Burt’s best efforts, Kurt had also grown up fighting.   
  
This  _Puck,_ on the other hand, wasn’t at all like Bobby had imagined. The Mohawk and the boy’s swagger made him look tough, sure. But Bobby had pulled enough cons in his life to know how much people won’t look past a haircut, thinking they know everything from your posture. And that’s all it was, too; posturing. Like Dean.   
  
_Sonofabitch,_ Bobby groaned and closed his eyes. It was the damn Winchesters all over again. Bobby wasn’t sure how he kept collecting these lost boys, but,  _damnit, I’m too damn old to be Peter Pan._   
  
Kurt leaned over the engine, to point something out to Puck. Puck looked, but pulled back, very obviously checking out the other boy’s ass, and Bobby felt his eyebrows rise.   
  
“Oh balls,” He looked at Puck, and rubbed his hand over his face, “literally.”   
  
Bobby was contemplating getting a bucket to keep filled with holy water, maybe with some holy water ice cubes, to banish teenage hormones, when the main phone rang. Without looking away from the scene outside, Puck seemed content to admire from afar, Bobby grabbed the handset.   
  
“Singer Salvage,” he said.   
  
_“How’s he doing?”_   
  
Bobby rolled his eyes and walked away from the window. “And hello to you, too, Sheriff.”   
  
_“Hi, Bobby. How’s Puck?”_   
  
Bobby looked over his shoulder, out the window. It looked like Puck and Kurt were now both under the hood, hands in occupied with the engine. And didn’t Kurt have a boyfriend? Bobby felt a headache start behind his left eye. Teenagers.   
  
“I think he’s doing just fine. In fact,” Bobby said, crossing his arm over his chest. “He looks like he’d get on fine for the summer. What happened to ‘Don’t worry, Bobby.’ Or ‘He’ll be gone in a week, Bobby?’ I’m supposed to be training Kurt to hunt. How am I supposed to do that with competent help around?”   
  
Bobby swore he could hear Jody shrug over the phone.  _“So train Puck, too.”_   
  
“Is your hat on too tight?” Bobby said. “I’m not dragging another kid into this hell-hole life. Puck’s trying to  not be a criminal, remember? Hunting ain’t exactly legal,  _Sheriff._ ”   
  
There was a pause.  _“Some things are more important than the law,”_ she said.    
  
Bobby sighed. “I can’t do this to another kid.”   
  
_ “He’s eighteen.  Legally he’ not a kid, Bobby. And monsters don’t count birthday candles.” _   
  
“Sheriff—”   
  
_“It’s Jody, Bobby. Stop thinking of me as the Law, and start thinking of me as your friend. Shit’s bad all over. You’re going to need Hunters, Bobby. You might as well train them up right, when you have the chance.”_   
  
Bobby breathed through his nose, jaw clenched. Damnit, if the woman made sense, and he could see the ease in the way Puck and Kurt interacted. They’d make a good team, as good as he and Rufus were, at least, if not as good as the Winchesters.   
  
_“Besides, what Puck needs most is direction. Let him put the skills of his misspent youth to something good.”_   
  
Bobby sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “And that’s all I can promise.”   
  
_“That’s all I can ask.”_   
  
Bobby scowled. “Don’t act like this wasn’t your plan all along, woman.”   
  
_“Wouldn’t dream of it. How’s he getting on with your apprentice?”_   
  
Bobby looked out the window just in time to see Puck give an oblivious Kurt another once over. “Gettin’ on like a House on Fire. Turns out they’re friends back home.”   
  
_“That’s—odd,”_ Jody said.  _“What’re the chances, huh?”_   
  
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Strange.”   
  
_“Bobby, you don’t think it’s something—you know?”_   
  
“Mystical you mean?” Bobby shook his head. “No. I think I’m just a paranoid old coot who’s sick and tired of being manipulated.”   
  
_“Whoops,”_ Jody said.  _“I gotta go; we’re getting a call in.”_   
  
Bobby looked at his silent police scanner. “Uh huh. Sure.”   
  
_“Bye, Bobby!”_   
  
Bobby snorted and hung up the phone. He hadn’t yet put down the handheld, before it started ringing again.    
  
“What is this?” he grumbled. “The goddamn switchboard?” He pressed the answer button harder than necessary. “What?” he snapped.    
  
_“And who pissed in your Wheaties, Sunshine?”_   
  
“Oh,” Bobby said. “It’s you.”    
  
_“I’m hurt, Bobby,”_ Dean said.  _“Truly.”_   
  
“What do you want?” Bobby looked out the window, but Puck and Kurt moved on, and couldn’t be seen. “I got problems of my own, ya know.”    
  
_“We found Cas.”_   
  
Bobby stopped. _Shitballs._ “Is he--?”   
  
_“He’s alive, barely. Hasn’t been awake, much.”_   
  
“How bad?”    
  
Dean paused.  _“Pretty bad. I--I don’t think he’s got any angel mojo left, Bobby.”_   
  
_Double Shitballs._ Bobby sighed. “When will you get here,” he asked, already calculating rooms and beds; Sam and Dean still had their room upstairs, without upsetting Kurt, and, well, it’d probably be a good idea for Cas to spend a few days in the panic room, just in case. There’d be enough room.    
  
_“Tomorrow,”_ Dean said.  _“Thanks, Bobby.”_   
  
“Don’t thank me yet,” Bobby said. “You’re not my only houseguest. You remember the Hummels?”   
  
_“Hummels,”_ Dean said.  _“Yeah. The werewolf job, back in ‘01. It took out a Hunter and her partner before we were called in. It was Sammy’s first real Hunt.”_   
  
“Yeah, well, her son’s here. His Dad said Kurt could Hunt after he turned eighteen. Sent him to me to learn the ropes.”    
  
Dean was silent.  _“And you agreed?”_   
  
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. He came half-trained already, and well, it’s a good idea that the kid learn to fight monsters that he can hit back.”    
  
_“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”_   
  
Bobby sighed. “It means the kid’s gayer than Elton John at Christmas, and living in Lima, Ohio. He’s been fighting a cold war since his classmates learned “fag” was an insult. Don’t tell me that a monster you can kill ain’t better than a monster you can’t.” Dean was silent, and Bobby continued. “Not to mention that the kid really takes after his Mom. You, of all people, know how important family is.”    
  
Dean grunted. _“You protect your family, Bobby.”_   
  
“And fight in their honor when you can’t.” Bobby shot back. He sighed. “Besides. Our numbers are down, and these big-mouths are on the rise. We’re gonna need reliable Hunters.”    
  
_“Who’re you trying to convince?”_   
  
“Shut up,” Bobby said.    
  
Dean snorted through the phone, and Bobby knew the expression Dean was making, that pinched/pissed look he got whenever Sam went and did something stupid. Wisely, however, Dean didn’t continue to argue.  _ “We’ll be there around noon.” _   
  
Bobby nodded. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “There may be a non-Hunter hanging around.”    
  
_“...What?”_   
  
Bobby sighed. “I know. It’s Mill’s nephew. She conned me into hiring him for the summer for my legitimate business. I took him on, thinking I could scare him off if I needed to, but now she’s angling to have him trained up, as well.”    
  
_“Bobby!”_   
  
“Didn’t say I was gonna, now did I? Though,” Bobby said. “He’d make a good partner for Kurt.”    
  
_“You’re unhinged,”_ Dean said.   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby said. “Mom,” and hung up the phone. “Idjit,” he said, not quite sure which of them he was referring to.    
  
***   
  
Dean dropped his phone onto the seat next to him. The Impala rumbled around him and he deliberately loosened his hands on the steering wheel. There was no need to take his anger out on his baby.    
  
Sammy was sacked out in the back, too-long limbs at familiar awkward angles. It never seemed to matter what position he was in, Sammy always fell asleep in the car, sooner or later.    
  
It was a good thing, too. Dean was half ready to knock him out just to get him to sleep. Sam had those dark circles under his eyes, the ones he only got when a problem was eating at him, a problem that Dean couldn’t fix.  _At least he’ll be rested for his one way trip to crazytown._   
  
Cas was slumped in the passenger seat. He’d awoken just enough earlier that they didn’t feel bad about putting Sam in the back, and had fallen asleep once more before they had hit the highway.    
  
“Dean.”   
  
Dean snapped his head to look at Cas. Sure enough, Cas was staring back in that unblinking way he still had. Though, Cas was so still Dean started to wonder if he’d heard his name after all. Dean checked the rearview; Sam was still sleeping.    
  
“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, quietly. “You up?”   
  
Dean could hear Cas breathing, slightly out of sync with the almost-snores coming from the back. Sam’s allergies must be acting up again. They’d have to get some Zyrtec or something next time they stop.    
  
Cas didn’t move.    
  
Dean sighed. “Cause--and I’m only gonna say this shit once, so listen up--I really want you to be okay. I meant what I said. You’re family now, Cas. And I’m pissed as hell at you for what you did, for thinking you couldn’t come to me, but we’ve been through that. It’s over. It’s done.” Dean swallowed, and rubbed damp eyes. Maybe he should get some of that Zyrtec for himself; he heard somewhere that allergies could spring up at any time. He wasn’t crying. “But I need you here, man.” Dean’s voice cracked and he stopped talking. Through it all, Cas stared at him. “I need you,” Dean whispered, staring at the empty road ahead.    
  
He felt a hand on his thigh. Cas’s hand. He looked over, and Cas’s eyes were bright with tears.    
  
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas said, his voice grating painfully out his throat, like gravel and cut glass. “For everything--”   
  
“Shut up,” Dean said. “I said it’s over. It’s past. We go on.” He swallowed as Cas looked away, sinking in on himself. “And no more of this self-sacrificing bullshit, do you hear me? You need help, you  ask. ”    
  
Cas looked back at him, tears flowing now, but his face still unmoving. “Yes, Dean,” Cas said. And Dean believed him.    
  
“Awesome,” Dean said, and stretched as much as he could in his seat, coughing away the lump in his throat, and wiping his eyes with his hand. “Glad that’s over. We don’t need to talk about it again.”    
  
“Dean--”   
  
Dean held up a finger. “Ah!”    
  
“But, Dean--”   
  
“Ah!   
  
Cas looked away, but this time, a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, more than ever had while Cas was full up on Angel Juice. It made Dean’s heart try to sink and soar at the same time. “Understood.”    
  
“Good.” Dean sniffed. “Time for some music.” He turned on the stereo, and Bob Seger starting to sing about life on the road, low and weary, and Dean shifted in his seat.    
  
Cas was quiet in his seat, but he seemed awake now, staring out the window.    
  
“So, uh...” Dean said, “How, uh. How are ya?”    
  
“My Grace--” as said, and stopped. “I don’t think I’ve fallen; it doesn’t feel like I’ve fallen, but I’m--out of ‘juice.’”    
  
Dean snorted at that, softly. He could  _hear_ the air quotes. “So that means what? You’re human?”    
  
“Not...yet,” Cas said. “Already my most distant memories are fading, I can--I can  _feel_ myself losing knowledge. Soon, I will be nothing more than human.” He paused. “And a poorly adapted one, at that.”    
  
Dean swallowed. “Cas...We’re going to Bobby. We can find a way to fix it.”    
  
“No, Dean,” Cas said, closing his eyes. “I feel that it is better this way.”    
  
“Cas, come on--”   
  
“No,” Cas said, his voice strong. “I have let my power corrupt my purpose, so my Father has seen fit to remove it from me. Very well. I will learn to be human.”   
  
“It’s not fair!” Dean said, and checked himself, trying to keep his voice down to not wake Sam. “Yeah, you fucked up, but--to punish you like this...” Dean trailed off, shaking his head.    
  
“Honestly,” Cas said, and the wonder in his voice made Dean look at him. “I do not think my Father intends this to be punishment.”    
  
“How can you say that?” Dean asked.    
  
Cas shrugged. “If my Father had wished to punish me, He would not have sent me to you.”    
  
Dean swallowed again. “Well.” He said. “I don’t know what kind of twisted up mind thinks  our  life is a--what, a reward?--but, hey. Whatever turns your crank, Cas.”    
  
“I have been returned to my family,” Cas said. “I can’t think of a greater reward.”    
  
Dean paused, swallowing around a thick lump in his throat. “Okay, you gotta cut that out, Cas,” Dean said. “All this chick flick shit is giving me hives.”    
  
“As a wise man once said: Suck it up, Dean.” Dean looked over at Cas in surprise, taken aback to see a small smirk on Cas’s face. He had missed that smirk. Dean laughed, so hard he had to pull the Impala over and curl over the steering wheel. There was relief in that laughter, joy, too. But mostly, this was going to make or some epic prank wars.    
  
A man has to have his priorities, after all.    
  
Cas was smiling at him, still small, like his face was it would get told to stop at any moment. Dean’s laugher calmed, and he just  _looked_ at Cas, and damn if that pain in his chest didn’t feel just like happiness.    
  
There was a snuffling sound from the backseat. “No, Mr. Jingles,” Sam muttered, still asleep, “That’s  my tapioca.” Dean slowly looked back to stare at his brother. Sam just sniffed, adjusted his position, and went back to sleep.    
  
“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered. “Right,” he said. “To Bobby’s.” He pulled back onto the highway, and turned up the tunes as Thin Lizzy cried out that the boys were back in town.   
  
***   
  
Puck found himself not wanting to leave at the end of the day, but Sing-- _Bobby_ \--had said Jody wanted him home for dinner. So, as the sun began to set, Puck peeled himself out of his blues, and said goodbye to Kurt.    
  
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Kurt said. “But today was fun.”    
  
Puck smirked. A solid afternoon of watching Kurt bend over; watching those surprisingly muscular arm flex as he worked, smeared here and there with streaks of grease and--Puck cut himself off before his ‘fun’ could become too obvious. “Yeah,” he said, instead, hoping Kurt didn’t notice the thickness of his voice. “Definitely.” He smiled back at Kurt and they stood there, smiling at each other, until Bobby slammed through the screen door.    
  
“Be back by eight, tomorrow,” he said. “Good work today. Keep it up.”   
  
Puck didn’t blush. Badasses didn’t blush. “Uh, thanks.”    
  
Bobby nodded. “Well, get before the sheriff calls me again. That woman, I swear.” Bobby went back inside, still muttering to himself.    
  
Puck waved goodbye to Kurt and mounted his bike, pedaling down the drive as the sun started to slant down from the West. He stopped at the gates as he left; the setting sun made the symbols all the more obvious. Puck pulled out his phone, snapped a quick picture, and rode back to Jody’s.    
  
Dinner was quiet; a long day in the heat had taken more out of Puck than he was willing to admit. He excused himself quickly enough, and disappeared into his room. Booting up his laptop, Puck sent the image from his phone. He had no idea how he was going to search for this, but Google seemed a safe bet.    
  
An hour and several reverse image searches later had Puck very confused--Singer Salvage had more protection prayers and wards in more languages than Puck had known existed. Bobby didn’t seem particularly spiritual, though maybe paranoid enough, to defend his home like this. Most likely, it had been a stoner artist and Bobby never changed it.    
  
Puck closed his laptop and picked up his guitar, planning to banish the line of thought with music, but it followed him to sleep, wrapped in a melody.    
  
The next day, Puck arrived at ten am, eyes open for signs of--what, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it also involved Kurt. The yard was quiet, and Puck leaned his bike against the porch before letting himself in the front door.    
  
Kurt was inside, dressed for work but leaning against the counter, drinking a glass of milk. Puck was caught by long line of Kurt’s throat as he swallowed.    
  
“Hey,” he greeted, his voice lower than normal. He cleared his throat. “Milk, sir?” Kurt asked with a cheeky grin.    
  
Puck had seen enough porn to be hopeful but declined the offer, not knowing where Bobby was. The last thing he wanted was Bobby walking in on his personalized Kurt Hummel porn. Instead, he hopped up to sit on the counter next to Kurt, to watch him and his throat as he swallowed.    
  
“Bobby’s in town,” Kurt said, putting the empty glass in the sink. “Something about groceries and feeding an army. He’ll be back in a bit, but we’re to start in where we left off yesterday.”    
  
Puck nodded, mind stuck on  _Bobby’s in Town,_ before he shook himself out of porn and back to reality. “Let’s go.”    
  
It wasn’t that Puck regretted not taking Kurt up on his offer-that-was-only-an-offer-if-Puck-stumbled-into-pornland, it was that he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Kurt looked. As much as Puck knew that what he wanted, needed, in his life was somebody to love, he had still gone from near daily (surprisingly kinky) sex to his own hand. It left him--antsy.    
  
He needed a distraction.    
  
A plan formed. He’d get Kurt talking about something that could in no way trigger Puck’s libido, and just let him talk until they left this weird porn-movie-limbo.    
  
It was that or break out his sweet-ass dance moves, and hope Kurt would put out before Bobby got back. No one could resist his love-dance.    
  
Except Sue Sylvester. But he was pretty sure she wasn’t actually human, so she didn’t count. And, if he had to work with Kurt all summer, he couldn’t fuck that up with--uh-- _fucking._   
  
Unsexy thoughts it is.    
  
“So, how’s your boy?” Puck heard himself say, and  _damnit_ that wasn’t what he meant to say. Still, it was a buzzkill for him, even if it turned out the opposite for Kurt. Though, if Kurt was primed and ready, Puck was primed and ready, and it wasn’t like he let boyfriends stop him in the past--   
  
In the past. It was like a bucket of ice water. Then, Puck saw Kurt’s face, and it was like _two_ buckets of ice water.  _Shit._ That was Kurt’s  _I’m upset but I’m not gonna show it,_ face, which really wasn’t that far from his _I’m better than all of you_ _,_ face, but Puck had had a long time to learn the difference between the two. “Dude, did something happen?”    
  
“No,” Kurt said shortly, and ducked under the hood of a Mustang.    
  
“You wanna talk about it?”    
  
Kurt shot him a scathing look over the hood. It did what no bucket of ice water could do; Kurt hadn’t looked at him like that for months. “And what, exactly, makes you think there’s anything to talk about? Or if there was, that I’d talk to you?”    
  
Puck blinked. “Harsh, man.”    
  
Kurt’s face softened, and he pulled back. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just--” Kurt pocketed the wrench in his hands, and turned to lean against the bumper. “If your special someone was out of state for a couple of months, and you wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t you want to take any opportunity to at least talk to them?”    
  
Puck shrugged. “Well, yeah. Whoever'd be your ‘special someone’ would be that because you like talking to them.”    
  
Kurt brightened just a bit. “Exactly,” Kurt said. “You get it. Why doesn't he?”    
  
Puck frowned. He didn’t like where this was going. “What does that mean?”    
  
Kurt slumped. The dejected look on his face made Puck was to hit someone. Nobody hut his boy without answering to Puck. “It’s only been a couple days, but, we haven’t talked at all; since before I came out here. We used to be on the phone all the time! And this morning I got this:” Kurt pulled out his phone and brought up a text message, and showed it to Puck.    
  
_ sry. out l8 w/Seb.    
  
it’s okay. Skype tonight? :)   
  
can’t. Wrblr party. miss u!!!! _   
  
Puck handed back the phone, not quite sure what Kurt was getting at. But he knew enough to play along. “That’s balls.”    
  
“So I’m not reading too much into it,” Kurt said. His voice had gone very flat. “Wonderful.”   
  
Puck suddenly felt very guilty about his earlier interest. “It could be innocent,” Puck said. “I mean. I’ve seen you two together. You’re very couple-y.”    
  
“Yeah,” Kurt said. “In public we’re this great romance. Holding hands and chaste kisses. The problem is--how much are you willing to hear?” Kurt asked suddenly, one eyebrow raised.    
  
“I’m down.” Puck shrugged. “Even with the kinky shit.” Puck bit his tongue. Don’t think about the kinky shit.    
  
“You’re not going to tell anyone?”   
  
“Who would I tell?” Puck said. “Nah, man. I spread tales of my own exploits only. Gotta keep the legend alive.”    
  
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Kurt said, suddenly sly, “How much of that ‘legend’ is true?”    
  
“About a 70/30 split,” Puck said, and waggled his eyebrows. “And if you’re lucky I’ll tell you which way. We’ll go tit-for-tat. Your turn.”     
  
Kurt snorted. “All right. Well,” Kurt fidgeted. “The problem is that we’re all couple-y in private too. With holding hands and chaste kisses. Emphasis on  _chaste_ _._ ” Kurt threw up his hands. “He won’t touch me! Even when I tell him it’s okay, he either deliberately misses the point or thinks up an excuse.”    
  
Puck shrugged. “Maybe he isn’t ready.”    
  
“Then he should say that instead of giving me a complex,” Kurt grumbled. “And--he keeps playing it off like he’s doing me a favor, like he thinks I’m not ready, when really, I’ve been ready, I just don’t want--” Kurt cut himself off.    
  
“Don’t want what?” Puck pressed. Kurt was silent for a long moment.    
  
“Him,” Kurt said, so softly Puck wasn’t sure he heard it right. “Blaine, for all that he’s handsome and charming and very romantic--and don’t think I don’t love the public romance, I do, it’s just--I don’t see why we can’t have that  and something more in private. I keep waiting for him to try to push, and he doesn’t and I would, but--he’s not exactly my type.” Kurt buried his face in his hands. “It’s horrible. He’s my boyfriend. I should want him. I do! But when he stops us, I can’t help feeling relieved.” Kurt sagged, dropping his hands. “Now that the gloss has started to wear off, I’m worried I’m not, actually,  _attracted_ to him. That it was just infatuation and the--the  _idea_ of a boyfriend that I was attracted to.” He sighed. “And being so far away isn’t helping. I’m all--” Kurt waved his hands. “Confused.”    
  
Puck knew exactly how he felt; he had felt the same before, with Lauren, and in the aftermath of some of the more adventurous cougars. Maybe Kurt could benefit from his go-to solution.    
  
“You could always use the Jerk Test.”    
  
“The--” Kurt blinked at Puck. “The what?”    
  
“The Jerk Test,” Puck shrugged. “You know.”    
  
“No,” Kurt shook his head. “You mean--to test if he’s a Jerk?”    
  
Puck shook his head, laughing a little. “No, no. Jerk,” Puck made a fist and jacked it in front of his crotch, please to see Kurt pink. “It’s like this. When I’m confused about this kinda shit, I think about it when jacking it. If it does it for me, then I know. If it doesn’t, well, that’s an answer too.”    
  
Kurt folded his arms and shifted his hips. “Let me get this straight. You want me to--”    
  
“Jerk off to your boyfriend.”   
  
“And this will help?”    
  
Puck frowned. Kurt didn’t have to sound so skeptical. The Jerk Test was time-honored, past down from bro to bro as one of the major decision makers of every male’s life.    
  
Okay, Puck may have made that up, but still. “It’s helped me figure a lot of shit out about myself.”    
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow, once again hidden behind that porcelain mask. “Like what?” Kurt was practically taunting him, which wasn’t cool, but Puck had seen the cracks, and wanted to see them more. So, he said,    
  
“Like that I like getting fucked as much as fucking.”    
  
_There,_ Puck smirked. That was the face, red-cheeked and wide eyed, mouth just slipped open. And, because Puck was Puck, he couldn’t leave it there, so he added;    
  
“ The cougars are a kinky bunch. I showed up one day, and one of ‘em had a strap-on, had bound her tits with, like, an ace bandage, and had tucked her hair up under her hat. She made me call her mister, which was weird, but, well, I liked it enough that it freaked me out a little.  I went home and put it to the test. So...” Puck trailed off.    
  
“Puck,” Kurt said slowly. “Did you just come out to me?”    
  
Puck felt himself flush cold, but shrugged. “I guess, I mean. I know I’m not gay. A guy can be straight and like being on that side of anal, but I did the test to gay porn, so--I’m probably, I dunno, Bi or something.”      
  
Kurt had his assessing face on. And Puck hated that Kurt regained his equilibrium so quickly, but Puck knew what could fluster him now. He grinned.    
  
“Bi, maybe,” Kurt said. “Probably Pan, now that I think of it.” He grinned, cheeky. “Makes sense, now that I think about it. A ‘sex shark’ as bad as you can’t be limited to one sex or gender.”    
  
Puck’s smirk fell. “What does that mean, ‘it makes sense’?”    
  
Kurt waved him off. “It’s nothing if you don’t think to look for it. And certainly no one back home would pick up on. And I assume you won’t be coming out at school this fall?” Kurt pulled his wrench out, apparently over his mini-break. “I don’t blame you. It  _is_ still Lima.”    
  
“Yeah, probably not,” Puck said. “Unless I had a good reason to.” He wasn’t sure why he added that, but it seemed very important to make that clear. Puck wasn’t ashamed; badasses were never ashamed, but at the same time, there was being out and proud, and out and proud and smart.    
  
And he still wasn’t quite sure how this had turned back around on him. He opened his mouth to pull Kurt back from the car, to get more about Blaine out in the open, because there was no way that wound was lanced completely, but before he could say anything, there was the sound of a beautifully tuned engine, and the faint strains of heavy rock traveling up the driveway. He turned, and saw an angel; a black 1967 Chevy Impala, three men just visible inside,  _Back in Black_ blasting from the open windows. He turned to Kurt, surprised to see recognition on his face.    
  
“You know them?” Puck asked.    
  
“The Winchesters,” Kurt said, something not quite awe in his voice. “Sonofa Bitch.”     
  
***   
  
Kurt had heard stories of the Winchesters. Hell, every Hunter had heard about John Winchester, would curse and praise him in the same breath. He knew they had helped his father kill the werewolf that had killed his mom, and once the cloud of morning had started to lift, he had wheedled as many stories about them from Burt that he could. And as Kurt grew older, the tales started to focus more on his sons until one day, John was gone and the stories--   
  
The stories got weird at that point, nobody quite sure which side the Winchesters fought on. They were good, the best, probably, but they attracted trouble like nobody’s business. There had been rumors, too, wondering just how close the brothers were, and claiming they slept with demons, sold their souls, dead and resurrected, amen.    
  
Suddenly Bobby’s comment about feeding an army made more sense; they were here to stay. Kurt had known that Bobby was friendly with them; their pictures were scattered around the house, and he was pretty sure the room with the two beds was theirs. Still, he hadn’t expected to meet them. Kurt felt a tingle of fear-anticipation. He would be living in the same house as the Winchesters.    
  
“Who’re the Winchesters?” Puck asked.    
  
It was like ice water. Puck didn’t know about Hunting; Kurt couldn’t tell him-- _ shit! _   
  
“Old friends of the family,” the lie came easily to Kurt’s lips. “They’re father and my parents were both friends of Bobby.”   
  
“Cool,” Puck said, and Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. He bought it. He could see now why Bobby wanted him to learn; he’d never con the authorities when he needed to if he couldn’t lie to his friends. Even if he really, really didn’t want to lie to Puck. And it wasn’t really lying; it was more--bending the truth to his whim.    
  
Enough thinking. The car had parked and Bobby wasn’t in. That meant it was up to Kurt to go say hello.    
  
Kurt emerged from the lot just as the driver stepped out of the car. Kurt felt his steps falter for just a moment. Tall, well-built, dirty blond hair and a sexy scruff. The stories never said how hot--it must be Dean, with his hair that short--the stories never said how  _hot_ Dean was.    
  
“Bobby!” Dean yelled. He hadn’t seen Kurt yet, and was frowning at the porch. That was Kurt’s cue.    
  
“He’s in town,” Kurt said, and tried not to show how his heart beat faster when Dean turned those--my goodness, so green--eyes on him. “Groceries. He’ll be back soon.”    
  
“Right,” Dean said. He was still frowning, and Kurt took a moment to look him over. Once you looked past the hot, there was something  _tired_ about Dean. Dean turned back to the car, and opened the back door. A larger man, obviously too tall to be lying down in the back seat, with longer brown hair and a bewildered expression, fell from the car to land on the gravel with a *oomph*    
  
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”  Dean said, and opened the front door. As the taller man,  _Sam,_ stood, Dean leaned in and helped a third man, not quite as tall, with black hair and bruised eyes, stand. Dean looked over at Kurt and said. “I’m gonna get them settled.”   
  
“I’ll help,” Kurt said, good manners overriding.    
  
Dean waved him off. “I got it,” and led the three inside.    
  
Kurt watched the front door for a long minute, but they didn’t return. So--that was the Winchesters. Kurt frowned. He was expecting something--more dramatic. They were taller than Kurt had expected, true. But, also more beat up--the rumors had painted them as near-indestructible. Those men seemed on the edge of collapse. And who was that third man?   
  
“Hey, Kurt?”    
  
“Hm?” Kurt was pulled from his musings to look at Puck. Puck was starting at the Impala.   
  
“That is one  _sweet_ ride.”    
  
Kurt looked at the car and couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face. “It really, really is.”    
  
Kurt’s fingers were itching to explore under the hood, but he restrained himself. You never touched another man’s car--especially not one this well loved--without express permission. He was just about ready to say  _fuck it_ and try anyway, when Dean came back outside. He had an open beer bottle in his hand and an expression like he couldn’t believe he had stopped moving.   
  
Dean looked him over and Kurt tried not to shiver. Dean was  not checking him out, but he was, apparently, shaking his head.    
  
_Great,_ Kurt folded his arms.  _Let him turn out to be a homophobe._   
  
“Kurt Hummel,” Dean said, and huffed a little laugh. “Goddamn, you grew.”    
  
Kurt paused. “You know--wait, grew?”    
  
Dean smirked, stepped closer. Kurt could feel Puck coming up to stand behind him and to the left, flanking him. Kurt wondered if he did it consciously. Kurt saw Dean notice. “Your Mom brought you here one summer. I was here with a broken wrist, and played babysitter. You were, like, three.”    
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow.  _Dean Winchester was his babysitter?_ “Well, then I hope I grew. Are you seriously telling me you recognized me from a toddler?”    
  
“Nah,” Dean said. “Bobby told me you’d be here.” Kurt folded his arms. Bobby hadn’t told  _Kurt_ that the  _Winchesters_ were coming, because, apparently Bobby was a paranoid  _asshole_ who thought  _life_ ran on a need-to-know basis. And Dean was smirking at Kurt like he knew exactly what he was thinking. He saw Dean’s eyes flick over to Puck.   
  
“Hey! No jizz on the car! I just waxed her!”   
  
Kurt stifled a laugh as Puck backed away from the Impala, hands raised. “Sorry, man,” Puck said. “I know shit about cars, but I do know sexy, and she is sexy as fuck.”   
  
“Hell, yeah!” Dean said. Kurt watched as the smirk became a real grin; it took years off Dean’s face and eased the tense line of his shoulders.   
  
“Well I do know cars,” Kurt said. “And as sexy as her body is, I’m dying to get a look under her hood.” Puck sniggered, and Kurt rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. Dean raised the bottle to his lips and Kurt was once again under that assessing gaze. He stood his ground, raising an eyebrow.   
  
Dean nodded. “Alright,” he said, and popped open the hood. Soon Kurt was in deep discussion with Dean about the last rebuild that Dean had done, and Puck was trying to follow along, but every time Kurt looked over, Puck was staring back with a glazed expression. Suddenly, Puck perked up, and when Kurt stopped talking, he heard it too; Bobby was back.   
  
Bobby parked his truck next to the Impala, and jumped down with a grunt. He adjusted his hat, and looked over the assembly.   
  
“What’re you lookin’ at? Help me get this stuff inside.”   
  
Kurt folded his arms. “Why? Who else is coming that you  _neglected_ to mention?” Bobby scowled back, but Kurt didn’t budge.   
  
Bobby sighed. “Nobody. Now, cart.”   
  
Kurt grabbed a box of food, and followed Puck into the house. He paused in the doorway, however, when he heard Bobby say to Dean:   
  
“How’s Cas?”   
  
“Not good, Bobby.” Dean said, his voice nearly growling. “Sam’s slipping, too. They’re upstairs, sleeping.”   
  
“Balls,” Bobby muttered. “When it rains, it’s a damned monsoon.”   
  
It was silent for a moment, and Kurt moved on, not wanting to be caught listening at keyholes. Kurt hated not having all the information; he felt like a character in a play where everyone but he had a script. What was it that had brought the Winchesters to Bobby’s? Maybe he was being paranoid, (and Bobby was proof that it was a necessary trait of a Hunter), but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone had been brought here for a reason. Call it Hunter’s intuition, or simply a love for a dramatic arc that outshined reason, but Kurt wouldn’t be surprised to learn that someone, or something, was pulling strings.     
  
***   
  
At that moment, somewhere that was nowhere and everywhere all at once, the ineffability formerly known as Chuck was playing chess with Death.   
  
Well, to be fair, it wasn’t quite chess, being that it existed in more realities than your average chess board, and the rules, while quite similar to chess, were quite beyond mortal comprehension. But there were pawns and queens and kings, so we’ll go with chess.   
  
They had been playing the game since the beginning. The same game. Neither had won, nor lost, nor did either of them plan to. They played in perpetuity, never ending thus never beginning, and so always.   
  
Formerly Chuck picked up his knight and rolled it between his fingers. On Earth, in our plane of existence, a righteous army felt the conviction and glory of Heaven. After long, relative, moments, Formerly Chuck placed the knight on the board.   
  
Death ate a deep fried pickle, and captured the knight. The righteous army was disbanded due to the sudden death of their leader.   
  
“Leviathan walks the Earth,” Death said. “My reapers have been busy.”   
  
“Hm?” Formerly Chuck said, barely glancing away from the board. “Oh, yes. Leviathan.” His hand hovered over a pawn, a bishop, something that looked like the monopoly car, and the thimble, before picking up his queen and moving it one space to the left. On Earth, the first female candidate was put on the ballot of the American Presidency, and hundreds of women walked just a little bit taller.   
  
Death sucked his straw, noisily drinking the last of his soda. He moved the top hat, and a rich man had a heart attack.   
  
“Your little pet projects are trying to take them on.” Death said. “Alone.”   
  
“I know,” Formerly Chuck said absently. “I wrote that book.”   
  
“You know,” Death leaned in over the board. “Their death and resurrection storyline? It’s getting old. Expected. If you kill them, I might not let you have them back.”   
  
Formerly Chuck looked at Death then, with a haunted, hunted expression that was so common on Chuck’s face. It cleared, and He smiled. “Yes, you will.”   
  
Death sat back, and licked his finger to pick up the remains of the fried breadcrumbs. It wasn’t a denial. There was no need for that.   
  
“And your other little project?”   
  
“Castiel has exceeded my expectations,” Formerly Chuck said. “Learning free will and all that entails; including,” and He pointed a finger at death, “Living with the consequences of his fuckups.” Formerly Chuck smiled. “I’m quite proud, really.”   
  
“You let him fall from Grace,” Death said. “You have doomed him.”   
  
“I freed him from bonds that were killing him,” Formerly Chuck said. He smiled. “Are you chastising me, old friend?”   
  
“Well,” Death said. “Somebody has to.”   
  
Formerly Chuck smiled and moved a pawn. A volcano erupted. Death countered with a pawn of his own. A new superbug was discovered. Formerly Chuck moved the car. A young girl was found wandering in rubble, alive days after an Earthquake. Death moved the blue plastic gingerbread man, and an old woman passed away quietly in her sleep.   
  
“But what are you going to do about the Leviathan?”   
  
“Me?” Formerly Chuck said. “Nothing. Everything has already been done.” He moved His pawn, movements sure, and set it down on the edge of the board. “King me.”   
  
Death stared. It had been centuries, well, Centuries on Earth, since the last time Formerly Chuck had gotten a pawn to the opposite end, let alone one flanked by the other pieces. It seemed the stage was set. “Very well,” he said, his voice echoing like graveyard bells. “Name your price.”   
  
Formerly Chuck looked over the board, seeing all yet nothing yet everything. “So many,” He whispered. He closed His eyes, and when he opened them, His voice was sure. “My message has been lost, and I will have my vengeance.”   
  
“It is done,” Death said, and the pawn became a trumpet.   
  
***   
  
Sam watched Castiel sleep on Dean’s bed. Until they knew exactly what was going on with him, Castiel was to be watched at all times. The former (Sam was pretty sure it was former. If it wasn’t, then, well, it would be soon), angel slept fitfully.    
  
So much for the sleep of angels.   
  
Dean’s bed was in the middle of the room, a barrier between Sam’s bed and the doorway. They’d always been like that; Dean standing between Sam and the rest of the world, trying to keep him safe.    
  
But Dean couldn’t stand in the chaos between Sam’s ears, and his back was against the wall.    
  
Literally, against the wall. Sam’s bed was pushed into the corner, and he sat with his back against the peeling wallpaper. The room was quiet, except for Castiel’s mutterings, and the whisper of his limbs as they moved against the sheets.    
  
Lucifer sat on the bed next to Sam, not making a sound, slowly twining yarn around his fingers in an ever more complicated cat’s cradle.    
  
Sam refused to look; Lucifer was just a figment. He wasn’t real. Sam rubbed his thumb against the gash on his palm. He knew where reality began, even if he couldn’t always see it.    
  
_Oh, now you’re just being stubborn,_ Lucifer said.    
  
Sam didn’t respond. He didn’t talk to figments.    
  
And talking to him would only encourage him, anyway.    
  
Sam thought about going downstairs, locking himself in the panic room, and hoping the warding circles would keep the devil out, just enough to get some real sleep. But Lucifer was back in his box, fighting with Michael, and not hitching a ride in Sam’s head. Warding circles didn’t defend against crazy.    
  
So Sam sat, and watched Castiel, and tried to ignore the devil whistling by his side.    
  
_Oh, snowballs, I messed up,_ Lucifer shook out his fingers, untangling the string to begin again. Sam didn’t know what was more disturbing; the devil saying “Oh, snowballs,” or his imagination making the devil say “Oh, snowballs.” Sam closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was getting another headache.    
  
They were less common now, than before. But still, when Sam was least expecting it, he would be laid low by blinding pain. He could feel it building behind his eyes, spreading like vines though his sinuses, to wrap around his jaw and make his teeth ache. Sam pressing his fingers to his eyes, watching the pain explode as colors behind his eyelids. His pulse thudded in his ears, louder as his gorge started to rise, and  _just MAKE IT STOP!_   
  
There was a smell of lilies and the pain stopped.    
  
It took Sam a moment to realize that there was a cold hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes to see Dean standing in front of him, holding a beer in his opposite hand. Bobby stood just over Dean’s shoulder and Sam took a shuddering breath. Lucifer was gone.    
  
“I’m okay,” he said, his voice scratchy and shaky. “Just--headache.”    
  
Dean was giving him that look; Sam hated that look. It was the look that said _I see your bullshit, but I’m going to let it slide. But if this comes back to bite you, I’m gonna laugh._ It was the same look Dean had when Sam tried to lie about fights at school, or had his first vision, or first drank demon blood.    
  
“We can take this downstairs,” Dean said. “Fill you in later if you wanna sleep--”   
  
“No,” Sam said. “I’m fine. It’s passing.”    
  
Dean nodded, and sat on the bed next to Sam, right where the devil had been seated. Sam tried not to read anything into it. Bobby pulled over a chair, and they leaned in, keeping their voices low to not disturb Castiel on the bed.    
  
“Well,” Bobby said, when nobody said anything. “As glad as I am to see him, anybody want to explain just how angel-boy ended up asleep in my guest room?”   
  
“We found him,” Sam said. “He’d crashed or something, into the house we were staying in.” Sam paused. “He left ash everywhere.”    
  
Sam could see Dean shoot him a look out of the corner of his eye. Dean had seen the ash, too, right?    
  
“He said he’s falling, Bobby,” Dean said. “And that it was a reward.”    
  
“That don’t make sense,” Bobby said. “Far as I knew, falling was a punishment.”    
  
Over Bobby’s shoulder, Lucifer wiggled his fingers at Sam.  _It was freedom, Sam. Freedom._   
  
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” Sam said. At Dean and Bobby’s look, he shook himself. He had to focus on their conversation, nothing more. “I mean, he fought with us for free will, and we’ve seen how free will reacts to angel-level power. Maybe falling was the only way Cas could be free.”    
  
Dean was staring at Castiel the way he always did when he didn’t think Sam or Bobby was looking, like Castiel had taken something important of Dean’s, was keeping it hostage. Like it was Dean’s fault.    
  
Time to change the subject.   
  
“So what’s this I hear about you hiring teenagers?” Sam said, looking at Dean, then at Bobby. Bobby scowled, getting the message but not happy about being the distraction.    
  
“I hired  _one_ teenager. Puck. Noah Puckerman; he’s Sheriff Mills’ nephew. He’s staying with her for the summer and she could have a successful career as a blackmailer.”   
  
“Mills is smarter than that,” Dean said. “Why would she send her nephew to stay with Hunters when he’s not--He doesn’t  _know,_ does he?”      
  
Bobby shook his head. “Not as far as I can tell. He’s a good kid, though. One of Kurt’s friends from back home. Has a good work ethic, for all his cocky attitude.” Bobby pointed the neck of his beer bottle at Dean. “Reminds me of you, actually.”    
  
Dean scowled. He turned to Sam. “Bobby’s thinking about training him.”    
  
Sam felt his eyebrows rise. “What?” Bobby...”  
  
Bobby held up his hands. “I haven’t made up my mind. Mills is pushing for it. Kid’s got a lot of anger that needs a good outlet; Hunting might be it. Not to mention that he’s one hell of a sweet talker.” Bobby took a swig of his beer. “I’m thinking he might make a good partner for Kurt.”    
  
Dean snorted. “You training Hunters or playing matchmaker?”    
  
“Shut up. Idjit. You both know what it’s like to have a partner tailor fit to you.”    
  
Sam found he was nodding along. It made sense; Hunters were getting pretty spread thin these days.    
  
“Besides. I don’t have to explain myself to you to knuckleheads.” Bobby said.    
  
“How’re you gonna tell him, Bobby?” Dean asked. “Process those cars and, oh, by the way, monsters are real?”    
  
“I was gonna let Kurt do it,” Bobby said, folding his arms. “I ain’t dumb.”    
  
Dean wiped his face with his hand and Sam found himself trying to fight a smile.    
  
“And that’s the other thing.” Dean said. “Hummel.”    
  
Bobby held up a hand. “He was raised in the life, even if it was on the periphery. I have no issues helping those already involved; he’s been there since day one.”    
  
“I don’t like it, Bobby,” Dean said.   
  
“Well then it’s a good thing you don’t have to,” Bobby snapped. “It’s my business, and I’ll do it as I please.”    
  
“I’ll help, if you want,” Sam said. “While we’re here.” It would be a nice pace. Teaching meant he couldn’t live inside his head; it would be good to get away for a while. Maybe focusing on teaching Kurt and Puck would be enough to keep Lucifer from creeping in. As if he knew he was being thought of, Lucifer looked up from his cat’s cradle and blew Sam a kiss. Bobby nodded his thanks, and Dean looked between the two of them.    
  
“You’re both nuts,” Dean said.    
  
“Practical, Dean,” Sam said. “He knows enough; he’ll fight anyway. Would you rather he wasn’t trained?”    
  
“I would rather he didn’t fight at all,” Dean said. “He’s just a kid.”    
  
“He’s older than we were,” Sam said. “Years older.”     
  
“He’s got plans,” Bobby said. “Finishing school. College. But nobody raised in this life can sit by when others are in trouble. And for that, you need training.”    
  
Sam knew where Dean’s resistance was coming from, and he rolled his eyes. “He’s not three, anymore, Dean. He’s grown.” Dean looked down at his hands. “And you haven’t seen him in, what, fifteen years? You don’t really have a say.”    
  
“But you could lend a hand,” Bobby said. “We’re gonna need help juggling everything,” Bobby nodded over at Castiel’s bed.    
  
Dean threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll help train him. But I want it on the record; this is a bad idea.”    
  
Bobby snorted. “Noted. Idjit.”    
  
“Also,” Dean said, and punched Sam in the arm.   
  
“Ow!” Sam said, clapping a hand over the spot. “Jerk!”    
  
“Bitch.” Dean said.     
  
Sam fussed, but smirked inside. There’s no way Dean wouldn’t have agreed that easily if he didn’t already want to. One day, Dean was going to realize how mysterious he  wasn’t.  But until that day, Sam was going to bask in his feeling of superiority.    
  
That is, until he heard,  _Oh, snowballs,_ quietly in the corner. Sam closed his eyes, and willed reality to make more sense. 


	3. Feels Like the First Time

Bobby stood on his front porch, thinking.   
  
The day had passed without great incident once the Winchesters arrived; something of a novelty. Bobby had hit the books with Sam while. Dean had kept Puck and Kurt busy outside. Puck had left before they broke for dinner; boy had keen eyes, noticing the faint lines of the wards on his house, though he obviously didn’t know what they were, and Bobby could see the beginnings of suspicion when he entered the study for the first time, to tell Bobby he was heading off. Puck’s eyes had caught on the books on the shelf, and Bobby had seen the look of confusion, the one that said _why would a junkyard owner own twenty-nine Bibles? And why would he store them next to the Quran and the Talmud and LaVey’s Satanic Bible?_ Bobby was going to have to come to a decision about Puck soon. If nothing else, he was tired of people telling him what to do.   
  
Speaking of. Where the hell does Dean get off trying to tell him what to do? Since when was that the way it worked. Bobby knew Dean was hung up on his Angel, and even with all the knowledge of angels they’d gathered in the last few years, Bobby still didn’t know enough for comfort, let alone how to help Cas.   
  
So, now Bobby had a Hunter-in-training, a border-line basket case, a man at the end of his rope, and a fallen angel all under one roof.   
  
Bobby looked to the heavens. “What did I ever do to you?” He asked.   
  
Bobby heard the door behind him open, and close, and then there was a pale hand holding out a bottle of beer. Bobby looked up, and Kurt shrugged at him. “It’s not quite warm milk, but...”   
  
Snorting, Bobby took the beer. Maybe he should have bought more. They sure went through it fast. “How you doin, kid?”   
  
Kurt shrugged, and sat on the steps. He had a can of Diet Coke in his hands (and  _boy_ did Bobby get some odd looks when he picked up a case of that stuff at the grocery store. You’d think he never got guests, or something), and he sipped at it periodically. Bobby waited. No matter what Sam or Dean liked to think, they weren’t that far off from teenagers themselves. Bobby didn’t forget how to deal with them. He waited.   
  
“I feel like I’m spinning my wheels,” Kurt said, finally. “I mean. I’m here to learn to be a Hunter, and so far, all I’ve done is catalogue cars. And don’t,” Kurt pointed at Bobby, “give me any of that, Karate Kid-wax on, wax off, shit.”   
  
Bobby sighed. “Kid,” he said. “Kurt. You saw them, earlier.” There was no need to say who ‘them’ was; it’d be obvious even if they weren’t the only ones who came by all day. “You still sure you want to do this?”   
  
“Yes,” Kurt said tightly. Bobby nodded.   
  
“Good. I’m gonna train Puck up to be your partner.” Bobby paused, beer halfway to his mouth, and forced himself to complete the motion. Huh. Wonder when he decided on that one. Bobby looked down at the bottle. Maybe this should be his last one for the night.   
  
“Good,” Kurt said. “If you didn’t I’d just do it behind your back.” Bobby raised an eyebrow at Kurt, and the teen flashed him a brilliant smile.   
  
Bobby grunted something that might have been a laugh and shook his head. “And probably get killed on your first Hunt.”   
  
“That’s why it’s so good that you agree,” Kurt said, and drained the last of his soda. They sat there in silence for a moment, and Bobby was struck once again by how similar Kurt looked to his mother; the same eyes, nose, skin. But there was something very  _Burt_ about the way Kurt sat on the porch, content to let the world turn around him as he disappeared somewhere behind his eyes. Elizabeth was always spark and motion, for all of her brightness, and there was no doubt that Kurt was her son. This, then, was his father’s legacy.   
  
Good Lord, Bobby was getting maudlin. He put the bottle down.   
  
Sam poked his head out of the door. “Hey,” he said. “Bobby. Cas is awake.” Bobby nodded at him, and looked at Kurt.   
  
“Well. You wanna meet a soon-to-be-ex angel?”   
  
Kurt raised his eyebrows, eyes wide. Bobby smirked. It was always fun to shock Elizabeth; it was good to see that Kurt reacted the same way. He could see Kurt try and reason out why the Winchesters were carting around a half-dead fallen angel. It was too depressing to say that half-dead was better than all-dead. But Kurt stood, and followed Bobby inside and up the stairs.   
  
Sam opened the door and Bobby passed through, noticing but not commenting on the way Kurt stood just behind Sam.   
  
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Bobby said. “Enjoy your nap?”   
  
Cas raised an eyebrow. “Dean has informed me that my naps are feline in nature. But my nap felt nothing like a housecat.”   
  
Bobby saw Kurt tilt his head, a strange smile flashing across his face; something fond and bittersweet. Cas turned to look at Kurt, fixing him with his wide-eyed stare and a head tilt of his own.   
  
“Hello,” Cas said. “I am Castiel.”   
  
“Kurt,” he said. He didn’t seem inclined to say anything else, which is struck Bobby as odd. Kurt was usually much more talkative.   
  
“It is alright,” Cas said. “If I was not what I am, I would not believe either.”   
  
“Cas,” Dean said, and Cas cut him off.   
  
“You are not the first non-believer to come face to face with concrete proof of my existence, Dean,” he said. “Nor were you the last.” He looked back at Kurt. “I would be happy to speak to you when you are ready.”   
  
Kurt nodded, mouth pinched in a straight line. He wasn’t looking at anybody. Bobby saw Sam look sympathetically at Kurt, saw his hand twitch like he wanted to reach out to comfort but knew it wouldn’t be welcomed; he saw Sam’s eyes flicker to an empty corner, and then down, his shoulders grown suddenly tense. He frowned. _That ain’t right._   
  
Bobby looked over to Dean, but Dean only had eyes for Cas. Bobby refrained from snorting. Damn fool was so obvious; it could be seen from space. Maybe now that Cas couldn’t zap away, they’d be forced to settle the matter once and for all.   
  
Cas turned his gaze on Bobby. “You have questions.”   
  
“Several,” Bobby said, registering when Kurt slipped from the room, but pulled up a chair and sat. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”   
  
Cas nodded. “Very well. I don’t remember much. And the memory I had is--fading.” He paused. “I remember the experience from before, when I had drained too much of my grace. But it feels different this time.” He picked at the pills on the blanket. It was, to date, the most human thing Bobby had seen Cas do. He shifted in his seat.   
  
“I was underwater,” Cas began. “And--there was pain. And dread. And terror. And guilt and regret and anger and--” he swallowed. “And then nothing. I was in the void, the space that is not Heaven nor Earth, Hell nor Purgatory nor Limbo.”   
  
Expression never changing, a tear slipped from the corner of Cas’s eye. And another; a steady stream with no heaving breaths, no tortured expression; just tears. “Then I heard my Father. I do not remember what he said; my mind can no longer comprehend the message, only the meaning; this is deliberate. My reward and my punishment all in one.” Cas smiled. “How very human.”   
  
He looked Bobby in the eye, but Bobby knew he was speaking to Dean. “There is nothing you can do; this is His will and His work and--” Cas’s smile grew a little wider, a little more human. “I can be happy this way.”   
  
Bobby saw Dean take a deep breath, saw his chest shudder with the force of it. “All right,” Bobby said. His voice was rougher than he expected, and he was unsurprised to find moisture hovering in the corners of his eyes.   
  
“But,” Cas said. “You will teach me to Hunt. Like a Human. I will not be a burden.”   
  
There was a moment of silence before Dean began to snicker. “Maybe you should invest in some school uniforms, Bobby,” he said. “Or, at least, a catholic school girl.” Bobby sighed.   
  
“Shuddup, Idjit.”   
  
***  
  
Rarely, Puck would get really kinda pissed that people continuously underestimated his intelligence. Mostly, he let it slide. Played up the dumb jock act. It made things easier when he could paste on a vacant look and not be called on in class, or not asked to talk about things he knew he really shouldn’t say anything about, or deny knowledge of any wrongdoing, Principal Figgins, I had no idea, honest.   
  
Sometimes, it depressed him, like when his mom--when his mom accused him of cheating in math (“off that wheelchair kid? Really, Noah?” “No, Mom, I didn’t cheat!” “Don’t lie to me!”), or talked about him like he wasn’t there, or ignored what he had to say. Then he would think that maybe, just maybe, he was fooling himself. That he really was just a dumb jock, a Lima loser who would never get out, so why even bother. But that way led slushies and crashed cars, so, no thanks.   
  
And sometimes, just sometimes, being underestimated just pissed him off. Like with whatever was going on up at Singer Salvage. Because Puck  _wasn’t_ stupid, and he  _wasn’t_ blind, and there was something  weird  happening and  _everyone knew except Puck. Including Kurt._   
  
And that hurt the worst, really. Kurt was one of the few who looked at Puck and saw potential, who saw past the dumb jock looks and the bad boy attitude, and saw  _Puck._ And Puck had thought, for a while, that Bobby did, too. But there they were, keeping secrets like Puck couldn’t see.   
  
Well,  _fuck_ that.   
  
Old Puck would have gone out, gotten drunk or high or  _whatever_ just  _fucked up,_ and done something crazy and stupid and violent and destructive and would have ended back in juvie or worse.   
  
New Puck,  _better_ Puck, decided not to get mad, but to get to the bottom of it. So, when he was getting ready to head over to the salvage yard, he gathered the notes he had scribbled on the backs of scrap paper, sticking them deep in his pockets so they wouldn’t fall out, and biked back to the salvage yard.   
  
His plan, to present the papers in a neat and orderly manner, lasted until he got there, and found the yard abandoned; no music, no yelling, no Kurt.   
  
Puck entered the house, the front door unlocked, and found Kurt in the kitchen once again, half in his blues, shirtless, and muttering curses as he tried to sew a button back onto his shirt. It was more skin than Puck had ever seen of Kurt and he stopped in the doorway, brain skipping to a halt.   
  
Kurt looked up and blushed a deep red and, yep, that blush went all the way down. Puck’s mouth went dry as his (stupid,  _stupid!_ )  dick work up and he barely heard Kurt say;   
  
“Puck! You scared me. I’ll be ready in a second; I just have to fix this damned button.” He sighed. “This would be so much easier with my own kit.” Kurt blinked at Puck. “You gonna get out of the doorway?”   
  
Oh. Right. Puck walked into the kitchen, and Kurt gestured towards the pantry. “Can you get me another spool of thread? There’s a basket on the top shelf and this--shit,” the thread snapped and Kurt slumped. “This thread keeps breaking.”   
  
“Sure,” Puck said, voice slightly strangled as he fled to the pantry, hoping Kurt wouldn’t notice. It was one thing to fantasize, and something completely different to be sideswiped by fantasy. Once in the pantry, Puck took a moment to calm himself down. Once he convinced his dick that  _it’s not happening, stop it, we’ll talk later_ _,_ Puck pulled the cord for the light, and frowned when the light stayed off.  He peered at the top shelves. He didn’t see a basket.   
  
“Where is it?” Puck asked.   
  
“Top shelf,” he heard.   
  
“Top shelf,” Puck muttered. “No shit, that’s where I’m looking.” Louder he called, “I don’t see it!”   
  
“Oh, for--” Puck heard, then the scraping of a chair against linoleum. Kurt appeared in the doorway, shirt held loosely in one hand. “No wonder, it’s dark in here.”   
  
Kurt stepped forward to tug the chord as Puck said, “Bulb’s burned out.” Then, Kurt was falling forward, the door swinging almost shut as Kurt’s sleeve caught on the knob, and Puck found himself holding a half-naked Kurt in his arms, his previous problem back in force, and there was no way Kurt couldn’t tell--not with that wide-eyed look of open mouthed surprise.   
  
Puck licked his lips nervously, and he saw Kurt’s eyes follow the motion. He saw the way Kurt swayed forward, eyes glazed, heard the short breaths; Puck had never been this turned on in his life. Distantly, he knew there was a reason why he shouldn’t kiss Kurt, but he couldn’t think with that lovely pink that was darkening Kurt’s cheeks. He leaned in to  _go for it, why the fuck not?_ when he heard the front door slam.   
  
“Where are they?” Puck heard Sam say.   
  
“I told ‘em to work in the back,” Bobby said. “Figured that’d give us some time to chat.”   
  
Kurt frowned, pulling away. Puck breathed a heavy sigh, and tried to adjust himself as best he could without Kurt noticing; he was still standing close enough that their chests would brush together if they breathed in at the same time. Kurt held up a hand for silence. Puck rolled his eyes. Right, because he’d want to talk and draw attention to their situation.   
  
Puck was only mildly comforted that he’d be less embarrassed if they actually had been getting up to something.   
  
“What did you hear?” Dean said.   
  
“More of the same,” Bobby said. “Something’s got the typical nasties running scared. Even the ghosts seem to be lying low. Nobody seems to be sure what it is, but...” Bobby trailed off. Puck raised his eyebrows at the mention of ghosts. Nobody knew this (because he wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it,) but Puck believed, without a doubt, that ghosts were real; he had always gravitated towards horror stories and ghosts, and when he was in middle school, he had stumbled across a cheap paperback series called  _Supernatural._ He had devoured all he could find in the Lima public library, going so far as to model his badass after the older brother, before he started High School and shoved everything that could keep him from being top dog deep into the back of his closet.   
  
In the first days of his fall from social grace, Puck had spent some time dicking about the internet, thinking about buying the set of books from eBay (they were only, like 50 cents a book, come on!), when he had stumbled across a website called  _Ghostfacers_ _._ According to their bio, they were professional ghost hunters, and had been successful in documenting several apparitions. Puck had watched the first video, where the _Ghostfacers_ had investigated an old theatre with a pair of amateurs, and been hooked. Sure, it could have been special effects, but there was something  _genuine_ about those videos.    
  
And come to think of it, those amateurs looked a lot like Sam and Dean. Puck narrowed his eyes, thinking.   
  
“Fucking Big Mouths,” Dean muttered.   
  
“It gets better,” Bobby said. “Nobody knows how to kill ‘em. Seems nobody lives long enough.”   
  
Puck looked over at Kurt, to find Kurt staring back at him. There was no confusion on Kurt’s face, no  _anything_ on Kurt’s face. Like Kurt knew what they were talking about, and was just waiting on Puck to--Puck’s eyes widened, as pieces slotted into place.   
  
They were Ghost Hunters. Like the  _Ghostfacers_.  But--they were talking about something other than ghosts. Something that scared ghosts.   
  
“Did you hear that?” Bobby asked.   
  
“Hear what?” Dean said.   
  
“Shh!”   
  
Puck stayed very still. If he didn’t move, they couldn’t see him.   
  
The door flew open and Puck raised a hand against the light.   
  
“What are you--get out of there!” Bobby said, and Puck slunk out of the pantry, Kurt following as he pulled on his shirt.   
  
“What do you two think you’re doing in there?” Puck had never before realized how effective Bobby’s scowls could be when his mouth was hidden by his beard.   
  
“Getting thread,” Kurt snipped, holding up his sleeve and showing them the loose button.   
  
Puck looked over at Sam and Dean, who were having some sort of silent communication with their eyebrows, the same kind he and Finn used when they didn’t want anyone else to know their top secret ninja plans. Only, they had top secret ninja  _ghost fighting_ plans, while Puck and Finn’s plans usually revolved around how many Twinkies they could eat before they puked. Sam moved, and Puck knew, knew, that they were going to try and keep him out of whatever was going on, and damnit, Puck had had enough.   
  
“Something is going on here,” Puck said over Bobby. The kitchen was silent as they looked at Puck. “I mean, damnit--” Puck broke off. How could he say “I’m not as dumb as you think I am” without sounding just that, especially if he were to open his mouth about ghosts, even if they talked about it first. He should have kept his big mouth shut. Way to go, looser, you--  
  
“You’re right,” Bobby said. Puck looked at Bobby in surprise. He hadn’t, actually, expected them to own up to it so readily. “But it’s not something most folks want to believe.”   
  
Puck looked up at Bobby after a moment. “Because then people need those protection charms that cover this place?”   
  
That got everyone’s eyes on him. “You know about them?” Sam said.   
  
Puck shrugged. “Saw ‘em my first day. Thought they were art at first, but then, well--” Puck pulled the papers out of his pocket and handed them to Bobby. “Here.”   
  
Bobby opened the papers, and Puck knew what he would see; proof that, even if nothing was actually real, that Singer Salvage was outfitted for some kind of supernatural war.   
  
Puck looked at Sam and Dean. “So--what are you?”  
  
“We’re Hunters,” Sam said.  
  
Puck nodded. “Like the _Ghostfacers?_ ”   
  
“No!” Dean said, “Not like the--wait, you know about the _Ghostfacers?_ ”   
  
“Yeah,” Puck shrugged. “There was an ad for their website on the--” Puck broke off and coughed. On the Carver Edlund fan page. There was No Way he was going to admit to having read all of those books. Those books would kill whatever rep he had left, no matter how much of his badass was based off of Dea--Puck’s eyes widened.   
  
“Holy Crap!” Puck cried. “You’re Sam and Dean! Like--Sam and Dean, Sam and Dean.”   
  
“Uh yeah,” Sam said, frowning, and Puck realized everyone was staring at him. “We told you that--”   
  
Dean groaned, cutting Puck off. “You read the books.”   
  
“What books?” Sam said, and then closed his eyes. “Oh. The  _Supernatural_ books.”   
  
Puck knew he must be red in the face, and the smug look on Kurt’s face wasn’t helping.   
  
“Shut up,” Puck muttered. Then he stopped. “Those books were real?”   
  
  
***  
  
Kurt was grateful for an excuse to laugh at Puck; it took his mind off of what had almost happened in the pantry and was  _in no way_ cute or adorable, and  _did not_ make Kurt want to hug him. Because Kurt had a boyfriend who he liked to cuddle, even if Blaine didn’t have Puck’s arms. Or chest. Or-- _ahem._   
  
_Oh, honestly_ , Kurt thought.  _You’re old enough to want them; you’re old enough to say it. Cock. You felt Puck’s cock and it was bigger--and more interested--than Blaine’s. There’s nothing wrong with it; it was an accident. You’re still with Blaine, and he never has to know how much you want to touch it again._   
  
Because  _nothing was going to happen._   
  
Puck, once he had gotten over his original embarrassment, had started grilling Sam and Dean about the  _Supernatural_ books, much to Bobby’s amusement. Dean kept shooting the old Hunter dark looks every time Bobby would laugh. Puck, while not oblivious, was too caught up in his own enthusiasm to stop, even when Sam started to look a little hunted, and Dean’s eye started to twitch.   
  
“Alright, enough,” Bobby said at last. “I still need you and Kurt to finish outside.” Bobby looked Puck up and down. “Tomorrow, we’ll start your training.” He looked over at Kurt. “Both of you.”   
  
“Training?” Puck said. “You--you’re going to train me?”   
  
“It’s why you’re here,” Bobby said. “Now get to work.”   
  
Puck looked like he just learned Santa Claus was real; granted, a Santa that would eat you if he saw you, but still. He drifted out of the kitchen. Kurt raised his eyebrows at the three remaining Hunters and without a word, turned to follow Puck and make sure the other boy didn’t walk off the porch in a daze.   
  
However, when Kurt walked out the front door, he found Puck waiting for him, arms crossed.   
  
“How long?” Puck asked.   
  
Kurt hesitated. “How long--what?”   
  
“How long have you known about this stuff?”   
  
Kurt shrugged. “All my life. My parents were Hunters.” He walked past Puck and down off the porch, heading towards the garage to grab his tools. Puck followed half a step behind. “My dad gave it up when my mom...” Kurt trailed off.   
  
“What happened?” Puck asked, surprisingly gentle.   
  
“You’ve read the books,” Kurt said, suddenly cross. He had the hardest time keeping his emotions in check around Puck recently, and anger was better than affection. “What do you think happened?”   
  
Puck backed away, hands in the air. Kurt sighed and grabbed his toolbox.   
  
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s still a bit of a sore topic.”   
  
“It’s cool.” Puck shrugged. He stepped into his own set of blues, and the kit Bobby lent him, and followed Kurt outside. They were down to the last few cars, still working together more than not. They could, probably, start taking their own cars, but Kurt had found himself strangely reluctant to leave Puck’s side. It was nice to be close to a boy and not have them back away; to have them lean closer, and not worry about whatever straight boys worried about when a gay boy was around.   
  
Of course, Puck wasn’t exactly a straight boy. And wasn’t  _that_ a revelation.   
  
Of course, in retrospect, Kurt wasn’t really surprised. Puck often blurred the line between “secure in his masculinity” and “possibly gay.” And his revelation earlier in the year that he was attracted to a person and not just the physical--Lauren was still a girl, not matter what was whispered in the halls, but the jump from “not just too physical” to “likes boys and girls” wasn’t that hard to make. In retrospect.   
  
And Kurt really had to stop thinking about this if he was going to be in close quarters with Puck for the rest of the afternoon.   
  
“She taught me to shoot,” Kurt said.   
  
“Your mom?” Puck asked.   
  
“Mm-hm,” Kurt said. “Right over there,” he pointed. Kurt and his mother had come to visit Bobby the summer he turned seven, and one day, late in the afternoon, she had taken him to the back and given him a rifle. She had helped him aim, helped brace him, and they had stayed out, shooting at cans, until Kurt could at least wing them every time. “My Dad and I still go to the ranges, but,” Kurt grinned. “My mom was always a better shot.”   
  
“When I was younger,” Puck said. “I used to wish my dad was a Hunter, like in the books,” Puck laughed. “That way he left because he wanted to keep Me and my mom and my sister safe, not because he just fucked off to wherever.” Kurt looked over at Puck. Puck shot him a rueful smile. “Now? I’m glad he wasn’t. Because it’s just one more thing that separates me from him.”   
  
“Part of the reason why I want to Hunt,” Kurt said, “is to be closer to my mom. There’s so little of her left; I can at least keep this alive.”   
  
“Which reminds me,” Puck said. “If you can do all this,” Puck waved a wrench to indicate the yard, but Kurt was pretty sure he meant “Hunting,” in general. “Why did you let them push you around at school? Like, when Karofsky was punching you into lockers, why didn’t you bring the pain on his ass?” he asked. Kurt heard, “why did you let them chase you away?”   
  
“A Hunter works in secret,” Kurt says. “Like Batman; he’s only effective if no one knows who he is. If I start  _bringing the pain_ somebody’s going to notice. Besides,” he said. “They’re just human.” It’d be like--” Kurt paused, trying to think of a reference Puck would get. Well, Puck had read  _Supernatural_ _,_ so Kurt took a chance. “Like Buffy. She can use her abilities to kill monsters, but humans are innocents in her fight; if she hurts them she’s no better than the monsters.   
  
Puck nodded. “Makes sense. Though, you don’t have to worry about the Watcher’s Council getting on your ass.”   
  
“No, just my dad.”   
  
Puck laughed. “True. Your dad can be scary.”   
  
“So can I,” Kurt said, smirking, and Puck shot him a look that made Kurt’s stomach flutter. His grin fell, and he turned back to the car.   
  
“Kurt,” Puck said. “I--”  
  
Kurt held up a hand. “No,” he said. “It happened--or, didn’t happen. We can ignore and just, move on.”   
  
“That easy,” Puck asked after a moment. His voice was darker, deeper; the last time Kurt had head Puck talk like that, Quinn had just told him she was giving Beth up for adoption.   
  
Which meant that this might mean something more for Puck; that  _Kurt_ was someone Puck really wanted, as opposed to someone he just  _wanted_ _._ And yes, they had grown close over the last year, and Kurt may have developed a teeny tiny pearl of a crush that he really didn’t want to acknowledge; he was done crushing on straight boys, Puck’s admission notwithstanding.   
  
Even if he had seen the lengths Puck would go to for someone he loved. Kurt wasn’t fooling himself; he wished that he had someone who would be that devoted to him.   
  
No. His current issues with Blaine aside, Kurt had made a commitment. One he would not break. No matter how much he really, really wanted to.   
  
“I’m still with Blaine.” Kurt said. “And I wouldn’t call it easy, no.”   
  
Puck nodded. “That’s fair,” he said. “Since we’re being  _honest_ _,_ ” Puck spat. “I think you should dump his Hobbit ass, and I’m not saying that because of me. Any boy that makes you feel like his issues are your fault, ain’t worth your time.” Puck picked up his kit. “I’m gonna work over there.”   
  
“Puck,” Kurt said. He really didn’t want to force the other boy away. Puck held up a hand.   
  
“You need to think about what you want,” Puck said. “And I need to calm down before I wreck these shorts.” Kurt couldn’t help a small giggle at that; after so long talking about sex in codes and half-sentences, it felt  _naughty_ to be this frank about it. With Puck.   
  
“When did you get so wise?” Kurt said. Puck just shrugged, flashing a grin. Ignoring the voice in his head telling him that this was something he could get used to, something he  wanted,  this easy back and forth, Kurt popped the hood of the Volvo and got to work.   
  
He had a Skype-date with Blaine tonight. Everything would be clearer after he talked to his boyfriend.    
  
***  
  
Ever since they were little, Sam had stared at Dean. As time went by, Dean had learned what each shade of stare meant. There was the  _older-brother adoration_ stare, the  _I’m disappointed in you, Dean_ _,_ stare, the  _I’m not laughing at you except I totally am,_ stare, and the one Dean hated the most, the  _I’m going to talk to you about feelings_ stare. At the moment, Dean wasn’t looking at Sam, because he had pulled  that  stare out as soon as Bobby had left and,  _fuck me,_ he was gonna have to talk about it.   
  
Sam leaned in  _earnestly,_ and fuck, Dean was glad they were alone in the kitchen. “Dean—just make a move, already.”  
  
Oh, no. Anything but this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Cas, man,” Sam said, eyes wide. “You’re mooning. He’s mooning. Do something.”  
  
Nope. “I’m not mooning.”  
  
Sam pursed his lips and Dean rolled his eyes. Bitchface number 7, _You’re being obtuse on purpose, and it’s not funny, Dean_ _._ “If you were mooning any harder you’d have phases, Dean.”  
  
Dean scowled, and pointed a finger at Sam. “I. Am. Not. Mooning. I ain’t gay.” And he wasn’t. Just because, sometimes, when he was feeling particularly needy, he picked up men instead of women, that didn’t make him gay. He loved women, the way the curved, the way they smelled, just as much as he loved the firm familiarity of a man. But--shit, did Sam know? About those “special bar” nights? Did it slip out, somehow? Because, as easy as it was to do, there was no way Dean was going to  _talk_ about it.    
  
Sam backed off, but his eyes were triumphant. “I didn’t say you were.”  
  
Dean blinked. Did he miss something? “You just told me to have gay angel sex!”  
  
Sam just crossed his arm, little brother smug. “I told you to do something. You went to sex.”  
  
“Because that’s what “do something” means,” Dean said, flinging his arms wide.   
  
“Not always,” Sam said. “You could have a very fulfilling platonic homoromantic relationship.”  
  
Dean deflated a little. What did that even mean? Whatever it was, he wasn’t doing it. He was pretty sure it meant no sex, and really, that wasn’t an option. Which meant that if he did ‘do something’ it would have to involve admitting to the  _things_ he wanted. With Cas. “…you’ve been talking to Kurt.”  
  
Sam’s smile gentled, and if Sam was sitting closer Dean would have punched him in the shoulder for the way it made Dean’s insides warm, just a little, to know he had Sam’s support. “I don’t care where you are on the spectrum of sexuality, Dean. You’ll always be my special snowflake.”  
  
Dean snorted. Some things, though, just went too far. “How am I the gay one?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas walk past. His eyes followed Cas’s ass up the stairs. He only realized he was staring when Sam started laughing.   
  
“Go get ‘em, Tiger.”  
  
“Bitch,” Dean muttered, standing.   
  
“Jerk.”   
  
Dean climbed up the stairs to the bedroom. He found Cas standing at the window, looking down at the yard. Dean closed the door behind him.   
  
Cas looked tiny in his cast-off clothes. The jeans belonged to Dean, cuffed and belted. The shirt was Sam’s. There was several days’ worth of stubble on his face, and in the shadow by the window, Dean couldn’t help but see the Human Cas from the future-that-wasn’t. Only his eyes, pained and tired, yes, but clear, kept Dean from thinking too hard about  _that_ Cas.   
  
“Kurt and Noah have a future together,” Cas said. “The possibility shines.”   
  
“Who’s--you mean Puck? You can see that?” Dean asked.   
  
“Yes,” Cas said. “Like a candle at twilight. My sight is darkening, but I can still see them.”   
  
Dean stepped closer to Cas, not wanting to spook him. “It sounds like you’re going blind.”   
  
“I am,” Cas said. “Humans see so very little compared to angels. In this body I am blind and deaf.”  
  
Dean scratched his neck. He’d been—not happy, but certainly not fucking miserable—that Cas was becoming human. Dean had always felt that humans were the best choice, and nothing in the last few years had made him think otherwise. But hearing Cas talk like this poked at that sore place inside Dean.  
  
“I would not change it,” Cas said. “The things I see now are better for it.”  
  
“Like what?” Dean asked, more for something to say than anything else. It showed; his voice was harsh in the near quiet and he winced at the sound. “What can you see?”  
  
“You, Dean,” Cas said, turning, at last, from the window. “I see you.”  
  
And something in Dean broke, something he had been holding back for years; before Cas died, before Sammy went to Hell and came back in pieces, before Dean spent forty years in the pit. Then there were arms around him and a presence that out-shined his shit-tarnished life, a hand lay over the scar on his shoulder,  perfect _fit_ _,_ and Cas said:  
  
“I have always seen you.”  
  
And Dean looked up and saw through his tears, Cas smiling at him, and  _fuck him_ if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. His heart beat fast with so much that he would be mortified to have anyone else know he felt, because he had always felt them so keenly and his eyes were so expressive, but this was Cas. Cas who had seen his naked soul and pulled his righteous ass out of hell itself and believed in him so much he fell for him—twice. If Cas could do all that, could  be all that for him, why the hell was Dean just staring.  
  
Cas’s smile widened, like he had heard that last thought. Fuck, maybe he had. Who knew what powers were still kicking with the last dregs of Cas’s angel-mojo rattling around. So to make his intentions clear, just in case, he thought hard about the two of them naked on the bed; the feel of skin on skin, the fabric of the blankets, the drip of sweat.  
  
Cas’s eyes fluttered and he moaned, low in the back of his throat, and that was it; it was all she wrote. Dean was gone. His hands thrust into Cas’s hair, pulling his head closer, tilting it and kissing his mouth, still parted from that moan and Dean didn’t waste any time. Teeth and tongue and moaning on his own; Dean had been dreaming of kissing Cas for years and he tried to do it all at once, felt frantic with the need. And Cas—  
  
Cas kissed him back. Dean had expected it to be like kissing a statue at first, at least until he could coax Cas into relaxing and just  _going_ _for it._ Then, he had seen Cas kiss Ruby, and while it hurt his heart, it had done wonders for his fantasy. Because now he had seen Cas get dirty, and Cas was kissing like that now, only it was better because it was  _with him,_ and there was desperation there and Dean had to wonder just how long Cas had wanted this, too.  
  
Dean pulled back with a gasp, licking his lips to chase the taste of Cas’s mouth and he stared. Cas looked up at him, eyes lidded and heavy, the ends of him mouth twitching into a smile. Very. Slowly. Cas dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. Dean felt his brain stutter and short. He shook himself.  
  
“We should talk about this,” He said, and  _what?_ Cas was  _right there, ready and willing,_ and he wanted to  _talk?_ But he did, goddamnit. He wanted—He needed this to be okay, to be something they could—they could  _keep_ doing. And—Cas was laughing at him.  
  
“Dean,” Cas said, and  _woah._ Cas’s voice was a sexy rumble at the worst of times, but when it was bubbling around a laugh it  _did_ something to Dean’s insides. “Me too.”  
  
“Stop reading my fucking mind.” Dean muttered against Cas’s lips.  
  
“Stop thinking so loud,” Cas countered, and licked his way in with his tongue and then it was Dean’s time to groan because — _where did he learn that?!_  
  
Then Cas pulled Dean by his belt-loops. Dean followed trying to pull Cas closer until he realized Cas was leading them to the bed and Dean was  _all over that._   
  
“Oh,  _yeah,_ ” Dean said, and now he was the one moving them, trying to push Cas backward and pull him forward and take off his shirt and kiss him all at the same time. Somehow Cas, maybe through lingering Angel-mojo, managed to lose his shirt and jeans — _Christ, no boxers_ — and get to work on Dean’s before they hit the bed and despite Dean’s frantic grabbing.  
  
Dean sat back cursing as he fights with his boots, and he almost lost the thread when Cas arched, stretching out on the bed, gloriously naked and, yeah, Dean’s fucked his share of pretty people, but nobody has ever made Dean  _this hard_ just by fucking  _breathing._   
  
His hands shook as he pulled his pants off, and he steadied them against Cas’ sides, gripping tight when Cas’s head fell back and then there was nothing to do but lick a thick stripe up the side of Cas’s neck, feel him shudder beneath him, and bite just over his pulse to hear Cas cry out sharply.  
  
“Dean!” Cas whined, high and needy, and his hands pulled at Dean’s hips, slipping over the smooth skin, trying to get him closer and Dean was there, pushing closer, reaching one hand between them to fist Cas’s cock and he chuckled against Cas’s neck at the choked off noise he made, pulling back to watch Cas’s as Dean started to slowly stroke.  
  
Cas’s face was red, contorted in pleasure, eyes dark and they fluttered shut when Dean twisted his hand, flicking his thumb of the head with each upstroke, smearing precum and making Cas twitch and shudder.  
  
“Cas,” Dean groaned, thrusting against Cas’ thigh. Cas took the hint, and grabbed Dean’s cock, forcing a grunt from Dean. Cas’s hand was warm and strong and softer than any man’s hand had a right to be, but it was good, so good, and it was  _Cas,_ and Dean could feel his orgasm gathering in the base of his spine and he’d be embarrassed—he hadn’t shot his load this quickly since he was a teenager—but he was too far gone to care.  
  
On the next stroke he opened his fingers and moaned as their cocks slid together, tightening his hand around them both. “C’mon,” he muttered and Cas’s hand joined his  and his breath stuttered and that was it, he was gone, shaking and coming over their fists, and Cas was bucking under him and  _he was coming, too_ and it was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen.  
  
Dean’s arm finally gave out, and he hit the bed and rolled, remembering at the last second not to land on Cas and Cas pulled and Dean let himself be moved, draping over Cas. He couldn’t do anything but pant for a long minute before he started giggling. He had just had  _sex_ with  _Cas_ in  _Bobby’s guestroom_ and he was pretty sure someone had screamed at the end and since it sounded like Cas’s name, he was pretty sure it was him. After a moment, Cas joined in, low chuckling that made Dean’s warm-fuzzy-post-orgasm-haze grow. Shit, he was probably going to get hard every time Cas laughed now.  
  
“Hmm,” Cas said, carding his hands through Dean’s hair. “Stop thinking,”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said, eyes already drifting shut for a nap.  _Worth it._   
  
***  
  
Sam looked up at the ceiling at the first thump. He narrowed his eyes. He was familiar enough with Dean’s habits, and really, how couldn’t he be? that he was pretty sure he knew what kind of noise it was.  
  
When the first moan echoed faintly through the kitchen, Sam bit his lip to keep from snickering at the look on Bobby’s face. Bobby’s face screwed up with exasperation. “Oh, balls,” he muttered and Sam lost it, laughing hard enough to bend over as Bobby left in a huff.  
  
It had been  _so long_ since Sam had laughed, and the release of tension was almost painful. He had almost calmed down when a sound from above set him off again, and he staggered, giggling, into Bobby’s office hoping the sounds would be a little more muffled.   
  
His laughter died when he saw Lucifer sitting on Bobby’s desk, flipping through an illustrated copy of  _Paradise Lost._ When he saw Sam he winked, and turned the book like he was looking at a playboy centerfold, a considering purse to his lips.   
  
_He’s not real,_ Sam thought.  _He’s not._   
  
_That’s just rude,_ Lucifer said.  _I’m sitting right here._  He looked back down at the book, turning another page.  _Would you look at the wings on that one!_   
  
“Stop it,” Sam hissed. “Just--stop.”   
  
_Now why would I want to stop?_ Lucifer said. He put the book down and hopped off the desk, stalking over to Sam and circling around. Sam stood still, fists and jaw clenched, and  _did not_ follow the devil with his eyes.   
  
A moan echoed down the stairs and Lucifer nodded that way, wagging his eyebrows.  _They certainly sound like they’re having fun._   
  
“I’m not listening to you,” Sam said, and turned to leave, like he could leave a figment. Sure enough, when he turned, Lucifer was standing in his path, chests nearly touching.   
  
_You miss it,_ Lucifer murmured.  _ You remember it so very clearly and you  ache  _ _with wanting it._ His voice was so quiet, the slick press of tongue to soft palate was louder than the whisper and it made Sam’s spine shiver.   
  
“Go away,” Sam said.   
  
_I can give you everything he did,_ Lucifer hissed into Sam’s ear.  _And more._   
  
And it wasn’t--Sam wasn’t even remotely tempted. Nothing Lucifer could offer could even remotely compare--and it wasn’t real, besides. It didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the one he felt every time he smelled chocolate or saw cheap porn or realized it was Tuesday, and the one he thought he had finally buried in true Winchester fashion. It didn’t stop the  _want._ But it was enough to make him hesitate, enough to make him not really  _want_ to say no.   
  
“Oh, Puh-lease,” Sam heard and his heart stuttered in his chest. No, please no, anything but this. “Anybody really buying that line anymore, limp-dick?”   
  
Lucifer pulled away and Sam turned. Gabriel stood on the carpet between them and the desk, looking just as he had the last time Sam had seen him; shaggy hair, eyes so light brown they shined golden, that smirk.   
  
“Hey, Sammy,” Gabriel said.  
  
“Great,” Sam said. “You’re stuck in my head now, too?”  
  
Gabriel shook his head, laughter still dancing in his eyes. “I’m not in your head, Samsquatch. I’m really here.”  
  
Sam shook his head. “But you’re dead.”  
  
“Eh,” Gabriel said, snapping his fingers and taking a bite of a Snickers. “I got better.” His eyes narrowed, “But you’re still cracked, Samalam.”   
  
“Yeah, no shit,” Sam said. He could just see Lucifer out of the corner of his eye, and the devil looked pissed.   
  
_Little brother,_ he said, voice still smooth despite his expression.  _What an unexpected pleasure._   
  
“Can it, dickwad.” Gabriel said, waving away the Snickers wrapper. He walked, that same familiar cocky strut and Sam felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. It’s not  fair  for his mind to torture him with what he can’t have.   
  
Gabriel pressed close and Sam could smell chocolate and ozone, and underneath it all, fresh lilies. “Fear not,” Gabriel said, reaching up to cup Sam’s face. His hands were warm, and Sam felt a tear fall. “For I bring good news.” And Gabriel guided Sam’s face down, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.   
  
Sam shuddered and the world went white.  
  
When Sam opened his eyes next, which was odd, because Sam didn’t remember closing his eyes, he was looking up at Dean’s concerned face.  
  
“Sam, you okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sam said, pushing himself up. He stopped when Dean didn’t move back. “Uh…you wanna move?”  
  
Dean hesitated for a moment, but sat back. Sam wondered if finally getting in Cas’s pants had knocked something loose in Dean’s brain when he realized he couldn’t feel  _it_ anymore, that jagged edge where Hell had torn asunder. Which meant that—  
  
Sam shot up, looking wildly around the room. “Where is he?”  
  
Dean frowned. “Where is who?”  
  
“Gabriel,” Sam said. “He’s not dead, he was here! He—”Sam stopped, and glared at Dean “What did you do to him?”  
  
“He’s in the panic room.” Dean said.  
  
Of course he was. Sam pushed himself from the couch, intending to go down and let him out, but Dean blocked his way. “Where do you think you’re going?”  
  
“Let me by, Dean,” Sam said.  
  
Dean shook his head. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“Gabriel’s back, Dean.” Sam said. “He fixed me.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean said. “Gabriel’s dead. Whatever that thing is—”  
  
“It’s Gabriel.” Sam insisted. “He. Fixed. Me.”  
  
Dean still shook his head, but he met Sam’s eyes.  
  
“I don’t have time for this.” Sam said, and walked around Dean and down the stairs to the panic room.  
  
Cas was standing outside the door, peering in through the peep hole. “Sam,” he said. “It is Gabriel.”  
  
“I know,” Sam said, and opened the door, walking through into what appeared to be the honeymoon suite and the, Sam checked the matchbook on the counter,  _Lover’s Lane Motel._ Everything was in shades of white, pink, and red, with lush fabrics and a table of overflowing chocolate desserts.  
  
The door shut behind him, and when Sam looked, it had disappeared. Sam, however, wasn’t worried. This was nothing new.   
  
Gabriel, back when he had been just Loki (if you could call a trickster “just” anything). Had liked to hang around and bug Sam when he was alone. Little things, to make sure Sam never got too comfortable. Salting his coffee. Slipping his books off the desk in the library. Awkward stains in awkward places when he was talking to attractive women.   
  
Then, after Tuesday--you don’t spend that much time tracking someone and not get to know them real well. He and Loki had months of memories shared by just the two of them. The little tricks had continued, always enough to make sure Sam knew Loki was watching, but never enough to start the hunt again. Sam had--almost--come to look forward to them.   
  
Then they had been trapped in the television, and found out Loki was Gabriel and though the angel wouldn’t help afterwards, the tricks had turned into treats. Chocolate bars that wouldn’t melt. Enough hot water for a shower, no matter how long Dean had taken, beds that fit his height no matter how he stretched. It was as close to an apology Sam had ever thought he’d get.   
  
Then, one night when Dean was distracted by the latest in a string of pretty faces, Sam had found himself being chatted up by a co-ed with honeyed hair and familiar eyes. Sam had known immediately--Gabriel hadn’t really done much to change his look, and could have been his own twin sister--but Gabriel had never let on that it was him, and Sam was tired, and lonely, and a little drunk, and he had decided to push back, to see how far this went.   
  
He had fucked her against the wall in the alley behind the bar, while she whispered sugar sweet in his ear and angelic names danced on his tongue. After, she had adjusted her skirt, patted his chest, and pulled out a lollypop, tossing a “See ya,” over her shoulder.   
  
Sam didn’t think he actually would. But he had, nearly a month later, once again at the end of his rope, it happened far too often in those days. This time she was older than he was, a bottle blonde cougar who smelled like candy apples and rode him like a bull in the bed of her pickup parked in a field under a Midwest sky. Then there was the redhead in Oakland with freckles dusted like cinnamon sugar, the jazz singer in New Orleans with a voice like velvet and skin like rich dark chocolate, the doublemint twins in Pasadena who were the only ones Dean ever knew about (they had gone back to Sam’s motel and Dean had come home as they were waving goodbye the next morning), and others; every variation of woman under the sun, but all with his same eyes.   
  
It had been a shock to see Gabriel as a man once again, in the motel of the gods. And there had been something in those familiar eyes that was something too close to regret, and altogether too much like love for Sam to want to think about. Then he was dead, killed by Lucifer, and Sam felt one more constant in his life crumble away.   
  
Sam looked back at the room and saw Gabriel. He had lost his jacket somewhere, and was sucking on a candy cane. Sam felt the grin spreading across his face.   
  
“I’ve missed you, jackass,” Sam said.   
  
Gabriel smiled, and that very first co-ed blinked up at Sam from underneath thick lashes. She slowly pulled the candy cane out from her puckered lips, her tongue peeking out to chase the flavor, leaving her mouth full and red and wet. She grinned.   
  
“Then you better come closer,” she said. “So you don’t miss again.”   
  
Sam moved before Gabriel had finished speaking, hands seeking her waist and pulling them flush together, licking his way into her mouth tasting peppermint and power. Gabriel groaned and broke the kiss to lick Sam’s jaw and whisper in his ear. “We have a  _lot_ of catching up to do,” she whispered and bit his earlobe.   
  
Sam grunted, and picked Gabriel up as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He threw her on the bed and she laughed. It was infectious, and Sam found himself laughing as he followed her onto the bed, not stopping while they made up for lost time.    
  
***  
  
Castiel knew the minute Gabriel created the pocket dimension. The newly resurrected archangel couldn’t leave the panic room, the angelic sigils Bobby had added were strong enough for that, but within the circle--  
  
Humans had a phase about Angels dancing on the heads of pins. Castiel could no longer quite remember it, but he was pretty sure it was apt.   
  
Dean turned to Castiel, his confusion easy to read. Castiel wondered if it was because he was almost human that other’s expressions were becoming clearer, or if it was because it was Dean.   
  
“What just happened?” Dean asked.   
  
“Gabriel and Sam are--” Castiel paused, looking for the right term. “Reconnecting.”  
  
“Recon--” Dean stopped, looking poleaxed. “I didn’t know they were ‘connecting’ in the first place! I thought Sammy hated him.”  
  
Castiel cocked his head, sensing what he could of the world around him. “Sam feels strongly about him, yes. But not hate.”   
  
Dean frowned and Castiel could feel him thinking. “You mean Sam’s in love with that bag of dicks?”   
  
“He could be,” Castiel said. “But I don’t believe he presents himself to your brother as a ‘bag of dicks.’”  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “But he is a bag of dicks.”   
  
“I meant to refer to his anatomy, Dean,” Castiel said, and watched as Dean shuddered. “He died to help you. And since his return he has healed your brother, bringing him real joy. And Gabriel has been courting Sam for some time.”  Castiel turned and headed for the stairs. Being human took a lot of upkeep, he was finding, and he was hungry. Dean followed. It was a good sign; if Dean were truly concerned for Sam’s safety, he would never have left the basement.   
  
Castiel gathered the items that caught his fancy. Peanut butter for the texture. Bread for the soft sponginess. Pickles for the sour crunch. Onion for bite. Jam for sweetness. Chips for salt. Grabbing a plate, Castiel began to assemble his sandwich as Dean paced.   
  
“Relax, Dean,” Castiel said. “You are making me dizzy.”   
  
“How can he just go off with him?” Dean said. Castiel heard  _why didn’t Sam tell me?_   
  
Castiel sighed and made a second sandwich, simple peanut butter and jelly. Dean liked his food simple.   
  
“How the hell is Gabriel back, anyway?”  _Why are you falling if he can be back on top?_   
  
“I suspect my Father’s hand in this,” Castiel said. “Eat your sandwich, Dean. You’ll need your strength.”   
  
“I--” Dean cut himself off as Castiel bit into his sandwich, deliberately moaning in pleasure. Dean sat and ate. Castiel smiled to himself. He could learn to like being human.   
  
Bobby entered a few moments later and stopped when he saw them. Dean froze, too.  _Ah,_ Castiel thought.  _Embarrassment._ He kept eating. They had nothing of which to be ashamed.   
  
Bobby cleared his throat. “Dean.”   
  
“Bobby.”   
  
Bobby nodded and started to prepare his own lunch. Dean tensed further in the silence. Castiel licked pickle juice from his thumb. Bobby sighed and gripped the counter, still facing away from them.   
  
“Dean,” Bobby said. “I could give a rat’s ass who you sleep with, just--I don’t need to  _hear_ it.”   
  
Dean swallowed. “Sure thing, Bobby,” Dean said.   
  
“Good.” Bobby turned and whapped Dean’s head with a towel.   
  
“Hey! What was that for?”   
  
“For thinking this would change how I feel about you. You’re a pain in my ass, either way.” Bobby grumbled. Dean lasted not ten seconds before he started to snicker. Bobby blinked at him, and then seemed to realize what he said. “Oh, balls,” He muttered, then threw his hands up when Dean laughed harder. “Shuddup, Idijit,” Bobby muttered, and sat at the table with his sandwich. “It’s about damn time, anyway. You two’ve been dancing ‘round each other since day one.”   
  
“What?” Dean said. “I--”  
  
“It was not possible until now,” Castiel said. “Anything else is our business.”   
  
“Speaking of business,” Dean said. “Gabriel’s back and gettin’ busy with Sam in the panic room.” Bobby froze.   
  
“In a pocket dimension in the panic room,” Castiel added, helpfully.   
  
“What?” Bobby said.   
  
“Oh,” Dean went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “And,  _apparently,_ the nookie is nothing new.”   
  
“What?!” Bobby dropped the towel and braced his hands on the table. Cas wondered if he should have made Bobby a sandwich as well.  
  
“And he healed Sam, so he’s no longer on a fast train to crazy town.”   
  
“A miracle from Father,” Castiel said around a mouthful of peanut butter and pickles.   
  
“The hell?” Bobby muttered, and shook his head. “I don’t even think I’m surprised anymore.”   
  
The front door opened and Puck and Kurt tumbled into the house, laughing. They froze when they saw the three of them at the table, Kurt going red and Puck snickering. Castiel nodded at them; so they had heard as well. Puck nodded back, but Kurt wouldn’t meet his eyes. Castiel wondered if it was because he used to be an angel. He would have to talk to Kurt soon.   
  
“Are you hungry?” Castiel said, instead. He was getting better at speaking like a human; he didn’t have to lie as long as he could speak around the truth.   
  
“Starving,” Puck said and went for the peanut butter. Kurt leaned in the doorway and Castiel looked away. Now was not the time no place for the talk they needed. Not with another need already bubbling inside. He looked at Dean’s sandwich and wondered how long it would be before they could escape upstairs again.   
  
Puck handed Kurt one of the sandwiches he had made, and sat. Kurt drifted over to sit behind Puck as he ate. They looked good together.   
  
Kurt frowned. “Where’s Sam?”   
  
Dean let his head fall to the table with a thunk and Bobby started to smirk. A moment later there was a pounding on the stairs, and Sam appeared, hair poorly tamed, missing his flannel, and looking well-sated.   
  
“Dude,” Dean said. “That fast?”   
  
“What?” Sam said.   
  
“Pocket dimension, Dean,” Castiel said. To Sam, he said, “How long did Gabriel keep you for this time?”   
  
Sam mumbled something that sounded like “three days,” and ducked around to the sandwich fixings.   
  
Dean looked an odd mixture of proud and disturbed, and opened his mouth, no doubt to tease his little brother more, when Gabriel appeared at the top of the basement stairs, wearing a college co-ed that could be Gabriel’s sister, and Sam’s flannel. Castiel was pretty sure that’s all that Gabriel was wearing.   
  
Gabriel stalked up to Sam, and pulled at him until he turned, and drew him into a deep kiss. Dean’s eyes were wider than Castiel had ever seen them, and even Bobby looked gob smacked. Of course, not knowing Gabriel previously, Puck and Kurt didn’t look at all taken aback, though Puck was checking out Gabriel’s ass. Gabriel broke the kiss, patted Sam’s cheek, and hopped up onto the counter, snapping up a candy bar to eat.   
  
“It is good to see you again, brother,” Castiel said. “You’re looking well.”   
  
Gabriel laughed, delighted. “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on. Give a moment, and I’ll change into something a little more comfortable.” Gabriel snapped and the co-ed disappeared, replaced by Gabriel’s usual visage--though Castiel noted he was still wearing Sam’s flannel shirt. And a pair of red-heart patterned boxer shorts.  
  
“Dude,” Puck said. He and Kurt were staring at Gabriel with wide eyes. Puck had a smear of jam in the corner of his mouth. Castiel thought about telling him to wipe it away, but Puck would most likely realize on his own once the shock of his brother’s presence faded. “You’re--”   
  
Gabriel smirked. “How did it go? Oh, yes,” Gabriel held up his hands and let his grace shine just enough to make his voice thunder and his presence glow. “Behold and fear not, for I am the Angel Gabriel, and I bring thee News of Great Joy.” The spectacle died and Gabriel resumed munching on his candy bar. “I’ve been on an indefinite sabbatical from my post as messenger,” he said. “But part of my resurrection included a return to my post and my heavenly duties.” Gabriel shrugged. “And since they consist of telling miracles every couple hundred years, and Giving Out His Vengeance--and come on, when was the last time Dad went wrathful, huh?--I’ve got a lot a free time. Oh,” He grinned. “And it means I’m posted on Earth, so I don’t have to deal with Raph when he’s being a major dickwad. Which is always.”   
  
Dean snickered, and turned back to finish his sandwich. Castiel knew he missed how Gabriel’s smile softened and grew warm when he looked at Sam, and the way he snapped his fingers and Sam’s sandwich gained fresh vegetables. Or the fond look of exasperation Sam gave Gabriel when he realized. But Castiel saw, and that was enough for him. 


	4. Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'

Kurt checked himself over in the mirror again. It was the first time he would be “seeing” Blaine in nearly three weeks, and after, well,  _everything,_ he wanted to look perfect.   
  
There. It had taken Kurt a bit longer than usual to style his hair; since he was at Bobby’s he had been letting it lay a little more natural and, honestly, he needed a haircut. His skin was as flawless as he could make it--there was no SPF available that would keep him from getting any color, but the healthy glow was nice and subtle. Kurt made a mental note to add a little more moisturizer to tonight’s regime, but overall he looked good. Kurt smiled at the mirror. It almost reached his eyes.   
  
Kurt slumped. There was no reason to be nervous. This was Blaine, his wonderful boyfriend. His first love. Kurt hadn’t done anything wrong. He was tested and remained true. Kurt squared his shoulders. It was time.   
  
Once back in his room, Kurt opened his laptop and logged into Skype. He still felt nervous, butterflies dancing though his bones, but he could tell himself it was excitement. It was still a little bit of a relief when he saw Blaine wasn’t yet online.   
  
Kurt glanced at the clock. They had said seven, and it was just seven now. He would give it a few minutes before he panicked.  
  
Though the open window he could hear the faint strains of the Impala’s radio as it blasted, of all things,  _Don’t Stop Believing._ Kurt smiled when he recognized Puck’s voice trying to harmonize with--was that Dean? Kurt raised his eyebrows at the window. Dean’s voice wasn’t half bad, though very untrained. Kurt smirked.   
  
He looked back at Skype. Still no Blaine.   
  
Well, he could always check Facebook while he waited. He logged in, quickly dealt with his notifications (he really needed to tell Finn to stop spamming him with Farmville requests), and idly scrolled down his newsfeed.   
  
Oh, it looked like Blaine had been tagged in some photos. Looks like a party. Well, it’s good to see that he’s having fun.   
  
Kurt checked Skype. Still no Blaine. He clicked on the Facebook photos.   
  
His eyes widened. He grabbed his phone.   
  
***  
  
Puck stretched out where he lay on the hood of the old Chevy that was parked next to where Dean had parked the Impala. The Hunter had been in a good mood--and if Puck had heard what he thought he had heard earlier that day? Dean had reason to be--and had pulled Puck aside to talk.   
  
“If you’re gonna be a Hunter,” Dean had said. “There are a few things you should know, things that no training will prepare you for. Are you ready?” Puck had nodded and Dean continued. “One: Death is constant. Everyone dies. And anyone can die at any time. Hunters are not known for being long-lived.” Dean had ticked off on his fingers, “Two: family is everything. Everything. And not all family is blood.” Puck had nodded at that one. He could see how Dean treated the others; they were definitely a family. “Three: Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s no out of this life.”   
  
Puck had frowned. “What about Mr. Hummel.”   
  
Dean had snorted. “Look at the way he raised Kurt. You really think Hummel is out?”   
  
Puck had frowned at the ground, and Dean had clapped his shoulder. “It’s also not all gloom and doom. We are professional badasses. And that,” Dean had grinned. “That’s pretty sweet.”   
  
And somehow, that had lead them to where they were, Dean tinkering under the Impala’s hood while they sang along to Journey. It was the first time Puck had sang since he had left Ohio. It felt good.   
  
Right up until Kurt stormed out of the house, yelling into his phone: “--next time you cheat on someone?  _Don’t tag it on Facebook!_ ” Kurt hung up, standing in the middle of the yard. Puck sat up, watching. Kurt had cleaned himself up, and looked more like the Kurt Puck was used to seeing in school, though Puck didn’t think he had ever seen Kurt that angry. His boy was bright red, and Puck could see the way he trembled.   
  
“Kurt?” He called out. “You okay?”   
  
Kurt looked over, sniffing as he raised his nose in a posture Puck knew too well from those dumpster dives.   
  
“Fine,” Kurt said, his voice deeper than usual. With measured steps, Kurt walked over to the porch and placed his phone on the wood. With the same eerie calm, Kurt picked up a metal headed mallet and walked over to the Mustang he and Puck had slated for scrap earlier that week. Puck realized Dean was watching Kurt with the same wary tension.   
  
“Kurt?” Dean said.   
  
Kurt breathed deep and heaved the mallet up over his head, bringing it down through the windshield with a crash. Puck jumped, sliding down the hood of the car. Next to him, Dean was on high alert, but didn’t move beyond tensing. Kurt paid them no attention, lifting the mallet once more to break the side windows, working his way around to the back. He climbed up onto the trunk to smash the rear window, and kept swinging, caving in the roof of the car.   
  
Puck heard a commotion at the door of the house, and a quick glance told him that the noise had brought the household outside. No one tried to interfere, and Puck didn’t blame them; nobody wanted to get near Kurt while he had that mallet.   
  
With a wrenching scream the roof of the car gave in, and sank into the frame. Kurt stood on the trunk, looking at the wrecked frame. He opened his mouth, and the sound that came out sounded just like the screaming of the metal. He dropped the mallet into the car, his shoulders curving in on themselves, as he covered his face with his hands and started to shake.   
  
Puck slid the rest of the way off the car, rushing to Kurt. Mindful of the glass, he managed to coax Kurt down off the car, and once they were both on solid ground, he wrapped Kurt up in a hug as Kurt cried against his shoulder.   
  
Puck was distantly aware Cas leading everyone else back inside, but his attention was on the boy in his arms.   
  
The summer sun was setting before Kurt’s sobs eased. Puck pulled away to look at Kurt. Kurt wouldn’t meet his eyes, but let Puck tilt his face up. Puck felt a twinge of guilt for noticing that Kurt was a pretty crier, but it was true. His face was flushed, and the setting sun caught the tears on his lashes, making them shine. “What happened?” Puck murmured.   
  
Kurt shook his head.   
  
“Okay,” Puck said. “Not here.” He turned them towards the house, intending to lead Kurt up to his bedroom, but Kurt balked, and wouldn’t move.   
  
“Kurt?”  
  
“I--” Kurt said, “Not yet.”   
  
Puck nearly smacked his forehead when he realized. His room was where he found out, and if they went inside there were several men who were worse mother-hens than Puck’s Nana.   
  
“I know,” Puck said. “Come on.” Pulling Kurt by the hand, Puck really didn’t want to leave the boy alone, he brought them into the garage and grabbed several army surplus blankets Bobby kept with his other “crazy-old-man” supplies. Puck thought about grabbing a Powerbar or two, but those tasted like shit and he’d have to let Kurt go for that, and no way in  _hell._   
  
Puck lead Kurt back out of the garage and to the west end of the lot and there it was, right where he remembered it; the old VW minibus. The engine was long gone, but the frame was still intact. “Here, hold these,” Puck said, handing Kurt the blankets. Kurt grabbed them, still looking like someone had killed his puppy, and boy eyebrows was gonna  get it the next time Puck saw him, even if it was in the hospital after  _Kurt_ was through with him, but he no longer looked about ready to cry.   
  
Taking the blankets one by one, Puck lined the bed of the van and crawled inside, pulling Kurt in after him. He settled against the metal wall, wishing Bobby had kept pillows, too, but whatever; this wasn’t about him. He held his hand out to Kurt, gesturing for Kurt to sit back against him. Kurt cocked his head at him, and raised an eyebrow.   
  
“You...want to cuddle with me?” Kurt asked.   
  
Puck rolled his eyes, but felt relief too. If Kurt could snark, he wasn’t numb anymore. “Shut up,” Puck said, instead. “My sis had night terrors. She says I give badass cuddles.”   
  
“So now I’m your little sister?”   
  
“Dude, stop stalling and let me comfort you.” Puck said, opening his arms wider. “Hug the Puck, and kvetch.”   
  
Kurt snorted, but he did crawl into the van, and settled, back to front, against Puck. Puck wrapped his arms around Kurt’s waist, and smiled against Kurt’s shoulder when Kurt started trailing his fingers over the backs of Puck’s hands.   
  
“So,” Puck said. “Am I gonna need an alibi when we get back to Lima, or what?”    
  
Kurt snorted again. “You won’t, but I might.” He said. “Or, at the very least, I need glasses. How did I not see this coming?”   
  
“See what?” Puck murmured.   
  
“Blaine was late for our video-date,” Kurt said. “So I was killing time on Facebook when I see that he’s tagged in a bunch of new photos. And in all of them he’s with this guy. And whatever, he could just be a friend, I mean, he didn’t look  _obvious_ the way Blaine and I can, but there was something in their body language maybe. I dunno, but I didn’t like it. Then, in, like, the last five pictures, he’s in the background and they’re” Kurt’s voice breaks, but he goes on. “I can’t even call it kissing. They were all over each other. Blaine’s hand was on the guy’s ass, and he never--” Kurt did stop there, and Puck squeezed, getting a hiccupping noise out of Kurt.   
  
Kurt sniffed. “So I called him. And he answered like I was calling out of the blue; he had forgotten our date. And I could hear people in the background and I snapped. I just started yelling, every nagging insecurity I’ve had about us, and I just threw it all in his face. I don’t even remember now everything I said. I just--I broke it off. I’m not staying with someone who thinks they can cheat on me, not after--”   
  
Kurt didn’t say it, but Puck knew what he meant. Not after Kurt had resisted that same temptation.   
  
“Well,  _fuck_ him.” Kurt said. He giggled, but it was slightly hysterical. _“_ _Fuck.”_ It was strange, hearing Kurt curse, but really, there were no other words.   
  
“I’m sorry it happened this way,” Puck said.   
  
“But not sorry it happened,” Kurt said, bitter but without real bite.   
  
Puck shrugged and chose his next words carefully. “I think you’re better off without him, and I’m not gonna lie and say I’ve been hoping you’d break it off with him. But this? This just sucks.”   
  
“Ha,” Kurt said. “Is it wrong to feel relieved and like the world is ending at the same time?”   
  
Puck thought about Lauren. And about Beth. “No,” Puck said. “Not at all.”   
  
Kurt fell quiet then. “Well,” Kurt said. “There goes my first boyfriend.” He sighed. “So much for living the dream.”   
  
“You know,” Puck said. “I never really got that. I mean--my dreams can be really fucking weird. I wouldn’t want to live in any of them.” He paused. “Except that one where I was Batman. I could live in that dream.”   
  
Kurt had gone still, but that comment pushed something in him, and he laughed, and it grew until he was laughing as hard as he had cried earlier. Puck found himself laughing along, and it was a good feeling.   
  
Kurt calmed, wiping at the corners of his eyes with his fingers. “Thank you Puck,” he said.   
  
“Don’t mention it,” Puck said.   
  
They sat in silence for a long while, just listening to themselves breathe, and the crickets outside in the dark end of twilight.   
  
“You know,” Kurt said. “Considering how I felt before, how unsure I was--I’d pretty much accepted that we weren’t going to be together much longer, I don’t know why--I think I’m more upset about how I found out than that it happened. I mean, shouldn’t I be more upset that Blaine cheated? He is--was--my boyfriend.”  
  
“Hmm,” Puck said. “Are you more upset that Blaine cheated, or that  _your boyfriend_ cheated.”   
  
Kurt just sighed. “I never should have dated him in the first place,” he said. “I just--I was chasing after him for so long. When he finally said he liked me back, it was like a dream come true. But--I don’t know that I ever really saw him, and not what I wanted him to be. He sure as hell never saw me, if he thought this was something he could get away with.”   
  
Puck snorted. “You don’t cross Kurt Hummel,”   
  
“Damn, straight.” Kurt said, and then snickered. “For certain definitions of the word.”   
  
Puck chuckled, and Kurt leaned his head back on Puck’s shoulder. They still didn’t move, but the atmosphere had shifted from something tense to something warm.   
  
“You know,” Kurt said at length. “This means I’m single again.”   
  
“Oh?” Puck said as casually as he could when his whole body tensed in anticipation.   
  
“And I’m probably going to be messed up about this for a while,” Kurt said. “So I’m not about to jump into anything new. Yet.”   
  
“Yet?” Puck asked.   
  
“Yet,” Kurt said.   
  
Puck nodded. “I can handle ‘yet.’”  
  
***  
  
Puck had gone home, dragged away by Sheriff Mills, who had appeared in full uniform when Puck hadn’t turned up. Her expression had softened when she saw Puck and Kurt walking in from the lot--Kurt guessed he still looked a fright, and he was sure Puck wouldn’t get into too much trouble.   
  
But that left Kurt alone, no one his age to talk to. He could go upstairs, see if Finn was online, or any of his girls, but--he couldn’t go back in that room yet. He dreaded to think what his Facebook wall looked like at the moment. He looked at the phone on the table next to him, and almost picked it up. But if he picked it up, he might call Blaine, and that wouldn’t end well at all.   
  
So Kurt sat on Bobby’s couch, staring at the bookcase opposite him in the yellow lamplight, and tried not to think. It wasn’t easy. His mind kept spiraling back, looking for a moment when he  _should_ have seen, and instead saw several where he  _had_ seen, but simply ignored.   
  
Kurt wanted ice cream. And Mercedes. Maybe Rachel, if she was having a good day. Something with Patti Lupone in it. Or Liza. He could take Liza in a pinch. Just--no West Side Story. He sighed. If only there was a Wicked movie. It wouldn’t be the same without the stage presence, but it’d do the trick.   
  
“No good deed goes unpunished,” he sang softly under his breath. “No act of charity goes unresented...” He trailed off, sighing. Blaine was certainly no Fiero, and Kurt was not that girl.   
  
Kurt was about ready to hunt down a copy of  _The Wizard of Oz,_ for the blending of both Wicked source material and Judy, when Castiel entered the study. Kurt froze, feeling his heart stutter in his chest. So far he had avoided any direct contact with the former angel--there was something deeply unsettling about his existence and Kurt was in no state to think about what it was. But there was nowhere to run, and Castiel came closer. He stopped at the edge of the couch.   
  
“Kurt,” he said in that (unfair,  _so unfair!_ ), gravel deep voice. “May I speak with you?”   
  
_If there was anything that would mark Castiel as inhuman,_ Kurt thought,  _it would be the way he speaks._   
  
“Fine,” Kurt said, and scooted closer to the arm as Castiel sat next to him on the couch.   
  
“I make you uncomfortable,” Castiel began without preamble.  
  
“Do you always state the obvious,” Kurt snipped, looking at the carpet.   
  
“Generally, yes.” Castiel said. He stared straight ahead as he talked, as if aware that looking at Kurt would make him run. “I have not always had the best grasp of what is obvious and what is not; everything is obvious to an angel.” Castiel paused. “Or so I thought. My time with Dean has taught me otherwise. I am--lucky.”   
  
Kurt frowned, finally looking at him. Castiel was smiling. It looked new. “Lucky.”   
  
“Yes,” Castiel said. “I am.”   
  
Kurt narrowed his eyes, and looked away. He ached, and he was in no mood to talk. It sharpened his tongue. “Well good for you,” he snapped. “If you feel like sharing, please, let me know.”   
  
Castiel looked at him, then, his eyes too big, too wide, to be human. “What are you afraid, of, Kurt?”   
  
Kurt felt his laugh strangle in his throat; it hurt like swallowing a pill. “Why do you care? Who are you--” Kurt cut himself off, wiping a hand at eyes that had teared  _without his permission._   
  
“I care.” Castiel said. “You were one of mine, Kurt. Born on a Thursday.”   
  
“Then where the fuck were you?” Kurt hissed, anger flashing bright behind his eyes. “Where were you when my mom died? When they called me names and pushed me around and threatened my  _ life, where were you?! ”  _  
  
After a moment, Castiel said softly, “Nowhere you would forgive. And for that, I am sorry.”  
  
“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Kurt said. Then he sighed. “But it’s a start.”   
  
“I want to be your friend, Kurt.” Castiel said, and damn him for being so earnest. Though, he was falling now, or fallen. Maybe he already was. “I couldn’t be there for you before, but I can be here for you now, if you let me.”   
  
“You want my trust,” Kurt said. “Is that it?”   
  
“I will settle for you staying in the room when I am there.”   
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”   
  
“Because I trapped you,” Castiel said. He paused for a beat. “Sorry.”   
  
Kurt snorted. “It’s alright. I’m not so far gone that I don’t know this is necessary.” And Kurt meant it; it would be impossible to live at Bobby’s for the summer and not speak to Castiel at all. Or Gabriel, but, for all Gabriel was a full-fledged angel, he didn’t put him off the way Castiel did; maybe it was because Gabriel acted more human.   
  
“I--” Castiel faltered. It was fascinating to watch. Very--human. “You have questions.”   
  
“Oh, oodles,” Kurt drawled. “Will you answer them, if I ask?”   
  
“Yes,” Castiel said. No hesitation. And Kurt found he believed him. So, he began to talk.   
  
“It’s no secret that I am--was?--an atheist. I’ve seen nothing--until you, anyway--that would make me believe there was a God. Would God take my mother? Would God make me this way, and then make me hated by almost everyone I meet? What God would do that?” Kurt glared at Castiel. “So I said he didn’t exist and I was _fine,_ then you’re you, and that means He’s Him, and if He’s Him, then I’m fucked.” Kurt took a deep breath, calming himself as best he could. “So--you wanted to know why I don’t like you? That’s why. You’re a constant reminder of every time someone told me ‘God hates fags.’”  
  
Castiel’s expression didn’t change, but something like compassion flickered behind his eyes. It made Kurt look away. “My Father doesn’t care about your sexual orientation,” Castiel said. “My Father cares that you love, and that you choose to love.” Castiel gestured with towards the door to the kitchen, where Dean and Sam were cleaning their guns. “Look at Dean and Sam; they are both slated for Heaven, and neither of them loves a woman.”   
  
Kurt snorted. “I find that a little hard to believe. Dean loves you, a  _fallen_ angel--doesn’t say much about approval there, does it? And Gabriel is a woman when he’s with Sam.”   
  
Castiel cocked his head to the side. Kurt thought he looked like one of those online videos of dogs; but he refused to find it cute. “My falling was a gift from my Father; a chance for a life of love. And it was a gift to Dean as much as to me. As for Gabriel, and myself to a lesser extent; Angels are genderless. I call myself male because I am bound to this form. Gabriel prefers a male form, as his vessel is male. Gabriel becomes female because Sam is heterosexual, and Gabriel would not last in a sexless relationship. But Sam loves Gabriel, who is not a woman. And Dean loves me, and I am a man, now.”   
  
Kurt shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”   
  
“It is better,” Castiel said. “More pure. Those who love will enter heaven, and those who hate will descend into Hell, to wait on line for all eternity.”   
  
A surprised laugh escaped from Kurt. “You made a joke,” he wondered.   
  
“I--wish I did,” Castiel corrected gently. “Hell has recently come under new management. He prefers the order of eternal waiting.”   
  
“That’s...scary, actually.”   
  
Castiel shrugged. “So is Crowley.”   
  
Kurt looked away. “I can’t talk about this anymore.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “My boyfriend-- ex- boyfriend--is a cheating bastard, and I just want to wallow in ice cream and musicals.”   
  
“Sounds like a party,” Gabriel said from the doorway. “Whatcha got planned?”   
  
Kurt looked at Gabriel, and felt a smirk twitching his lips. “Well...we could always watch  _Anything Goes._ ”   
  
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”   
  
“Wouldn’t I?” Kurt countered. Castiel looked between them.   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Do you hear that playing?” Kurt said.   
  
“No?” Castiel said, confused.   
  
“Yeah, I hear that playing.” Kurt went on. Gabriel was shaking his head. “Do you know who’s playing?” Kurt was nearly grinning now.   
  
“I still do not hear anything,” Castiel said.   
  
“No, who is that playing. It’s Gabriel, Gabriel, playing!” Kurt sang, his voice lifting strong as a trumpet. “Gabriel, Gabriel, saying: Will you be ready to go, when I blow my horn!”   
  
Gabriel lost it, bending over laughing, and Kurt settled back in the couch, smiling. Castiel was still looking confused, and Kurt took pity on him. “It’s Patti LuPone,” he said, and smiled when Castiel grew more confused. But Gabriel’s laughter was easing, so Kurt said:   
  
“I was thinking about  _The Wizard of Oz,_ for some Judy. If Bobby doesn’t have it, which wouldn’t surprise me, I can always get it on my laptop.”   
  
“I like you, kiddo,” Gabriel said. “So I can do you one better.” He snapped his fingers and, while they were still very much in Bobby’s study, the couch was now extremely comfortable, lush, and Kurt was between two mostly-naked male models, one of which was holding popcorn, and the other a diet coke. Castiel was on the other side of the model to the left, and Gabriel to the right. Kurt was holding a giant bowl of Rocky Road, and though the bowl wasn’t cold, the ice cream looked to have no signs of melting. In front of them, a giant projector screen had appeared, and the Metro Goldwyn Mayer logo was playing across it. The sound came from everywhere and nowhere at once, and was crystal clear. Kurt turned wide eyes to Gabriel, but was distracted by the way the dim light reflected off the model’s perfect chest. Kurt realized he was reaching out to touch only when the bowl in his lap tilted sharply.   
  
“Gabriel,” Kurt said. Gabriel looked at him over a giant Sunday of his own, piled high with whipped cream and fudge and candy and nuts and--Kurt looked over to see Castiel slowly eating a bowl of something that smelled like--bacon and maple syrup? Really?   
  
“I have never seen this movie before,” Castiel said quietly, leaning in close, not looking away from the opening credits, “nor any others that do not feature the pizza man. Do they all have so many words?”   
  
Kurt looked at Castiel.  _The pizza ma--oh, God. They showed him porn!_   
  
“You were saying, Kiddo?” Gabriel prompted. Kurt looked back at Gabriel, thought very clearly,  _fuck it,_ and grinned.   
  
“Thank you,” he said, and settled back to watch the movie.   
  
***  
  
Bobby stared at the newspaper in front of him. The headline read:  All Roads Lead to...Sioux Falls? Dick Roman to bring business/jobs to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.   
  
“Oh, shitballs,” Bobby muttered. 

> _As part of a new campaign to bring much needed jobs to areas of low employment, Dick Roman has proposed several projects to help boost the economy. One of these projects, an “alternative energy power plant” has been approved for several areas, including our very own Sioux Falls. The plant is to be several miles outside of town, and the plans include an increase in public transportation between several of the surrounding towns, to benefit not just the workforce, but also the environment. “It’s no longer enough to plan for today,” Roman said in his latest press conference, “we must plan for our future, and that includes green solutions to current problems. With these projects we hope to reduce not only pollution, but increase a standard of living.”_

> _ In an unprecedented move, Roman has accelerated the timetables for these power plants. As a result, surveyor teams will be arriving next week to establish the best site for the power plant. Ground will be broken on the new site this August, and Roman himself plans to be present at the ceremony. With an estimated end of construction date before the new year, this may prove to be Roman’s greatest work yet. And it’s a good thing, too. As Roman himself has said: “America is not just waiting for change. It’s hungry for it.”_

__   
  
Bobby put the newspaper down, eyes distant as he thought. Roman himself was coming to Sioux Falls. On the one hand, it may be close enough for them to finally get a clear shot at the bastard. But Bobby didn’t get to be where he was by assuming the best. The big-mouths knew where Bobby lived; they had known that for a while. Construction was too easy an excuse for a swarm of big-mouths on his back porch. And with Roman himself coming? No--the big-mouths were closing in, and they still knew fuck all of how to kill them.    
  
Dean entered the kitchen, stretching out his shoulder. “You look like a ray of sunshine.” Dean said. Wordlessly, Bobby tossed Dean the front page. Dean raised his eyebrows and read over the paper. His face fell.    
  
“Fuck,” he breathed.    
  
“No shit,” Bobby said.    
  
“Bobby, they--”   
  
“I  _know,_ ” Bobby snapped. “Ain’t no use crying about it, we gotta figure out how to fight it.”    
  
“Fight what?” Sam said, coming up from the basement. Gabriel had claimed the panic room as his bedroom, and Sam had been spending most of his free time locked in with the archangel. “We got a case?”   
  
“More like a lead on a long term project,” Bobby said.   
  
“Leviathan?” Sam said as Dean handed him the paper. His eyebrows shot up. “Shit,” he said. “I’ll get my laptop.” Sam disappeared up the stairs, and Dean followed.   
  
“I’ll get Cas,” he said. “We can pick his brain.”   
  
Bobby looked around the empty kitchen. “I guess that means I’m hittin’ the books.” He had just sat down behind his desk when the Winchesters returned, Castiel in tow. Sam sat on the couch and set up his computer. Bobby frowned at him. “Sam, where’s your angel?”   
  
“Oh,” Sam shrugged, a little sheepish. “He had a thing. He’ll be back soon.”   
  
“A thing,” Dean said flatly. “You telling me he’s trickin’ again?”   
  
“No,” Sam said. “He said he had a message to deliver. He didn’t say to whom.”    
  
Dean rolled his eyes and sat in the chair next to Bobby’s desk. Castiel hovered for a moment, clearly not wanting to sit down. Bobby didn’t blame him; the whole ordeal was one long reminder of what a mess the ex-angel had made. Still, Castiel had started this; he was damn well going to be involved in the clean-up.   
  
“Okay,” Sam said. “I have the official press release that prompted this story. There are several different works, including the power plants, of which there are—20!” Sam looked up. “That’s incredible.”   
  
“Evil,” Dean said.   
  
Sam rolled his eyes and looked back to his screen. “They’ve released a list of proposed sites, and they’re pretty well spread across the country.” Sam shrugged. “Sioux Falls could be a coincidence.”   
  
“My ass,” Bobby said. “It’s Roman. He’s up to something.”   
  
Sam shrugged. “That’s all it says about the plants. It doesn’t even say what kind of plants they are, just “green energy.”“   
  
“Soylent Green?” Dean asked. Sam punched Dean in the arm without looking, but Bobby nodded. Turning people into food? Yeah, sounds like the Big Mouths’ MO. “The next project is in farming, it looks like. Some kind of super crop. That’s delayed because of the seasons, but appears to be a real miracle food. Grows like grain, twice as nutritious, and causes something horrible in humans, I’m sure.”   
  
“Flavoring,” Dean snorted. Sam hummed along with dark humor. Castiel was looking at his hands.    
  
“Cas,” Bobby said. “What can you tell us?”   
  
Castiel was quiet for a moment, and said, “I know nothing of the plans of Dick Roman.” He looked up. “And of Leviathan, I only know that it lives to feed. It was first created, and first banished.” Castiel looked down again. “It has no soul, and is unlike anything else in creation.”   
  
“We kinda got that, Cas,” Dean said. His voice was gentler than Bobby’s would have been. But then again, Bobby wasn’t in love with the little angel that could. Well, little  ex -angel that could. “What with the whole, “we can’t kill it” thing.”   
  
Castiel looked up at Dean, and Bobby was glad he wasn’t sleeping with the angel, or he’d be on the couch tonight. Bobby shook his head, mildly disturbed at the turn his thoughts had taken, and Castiel let Dean have it.   
  
“I am trying my best, Dean. Leviathan wasn’t ever talked about, do you understand? It would not surprise me to find out some of my former brothers and sisters had never heard of Leviathan. It is from a time before angels, Dean. No being’s memory goes back before its birth.”   
  
Dean looked properly chastised, and Bobby had to admire Castiel’s power; nobody had made Dean look like that since the summer before Sam went to high school. Sam, however, looked intrigued.   
  
“What do you mean, never talked about? Was it taboo, or just not an issue?”   
  
Castiel cocked his head, thinking. “I am not certain. I feel it began as a taboo, and became a non-issue. But,” Castiel opened his hands in a shrug, “most of my memory has faded away. I can give you a feeling, nothing more.”   
  
“Would Gabriel know more?” Dean asked.   
  
Castiel nodded. “Yes. Gabriel is connected to the host, and is one of the oldest of Father’s angels. If anyone would know, it would be Gabriel.”  Castiel paused. “Or Death.”   
  
“I’m gonna say “no” on Death, Cas,” Dean said. “Uh…guy ain’t exactly keen to help us. Again.”   
  
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Let’s put that on the back burner. The far, far back burner.” Sam looked back down at his screen, and started to type.   
  
“Well,” Bobby said. “That means we hit the books until Gabriel gets back and—where did you say he was again, Sam?”   
  
“Westerville, Ohio,” Sam muttered, and froze. He looked up at Bobby, betrayed. “Bobby!”   
  
Bobby snorted. “What?” he said. “What’s he doing in Westerville?”   
  
“Hopefully giving Blaine several different things that itch in intimate areas,” Kurt said from the doorway. “Last night he may have plied me with sugary confections and mostly-naked men until I bitched about Blaine, and spilled all the dirty little details. He seemed…inspired.” Kurt wasn’t in his blues, for once. Dressed almost like the Winchesters, though his clothes were much tighter, and Bobby didn’t think he’d ever see either brother in a Lady Gaga tee shirt.  _Well,_ Bobby thought,  _Maybe Sam. To get Dean._ Puck was hovering behind Kurt, damp around the edges, though his clothes were dry. He must have gotten a ride, and Bobby felt unsettled that he had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t heard a car.   
  
“Well for that,” Bobby said, “You’re helping. How’s your Latin?”   
  
“Decent,” Kurt said. “My French is better.”   
  
Bobby nodded, a book already in mind for Kurt to begin. “Puck?” he asked, handing the book to Kurt.   
  
“Hebrew,” The teen shrugged at Bobby’s eyebrow, and Bobby felt like smacking himself.  _Right. Puckerman._ “Bit of Yiddish. You don’t say no to Nana.”    
  
“Good for us,” Bobby said, and handed Puck one of his copies of the Talmud. “We’re looking for references to Leviathan.”   
  
“What, like that big ass snake-thing Gabriel’s supposed to kill?”   
  
The room went still. “What?” Bobby said.   
  
Puck looked up from the book, concerned. “Isn’t how the story goes? I mean, world ends, big ass snake-thing comes outta the water and Gabriel takes it out,  _Moby Dick_ style, with a big ass spear.” He shook his head. “I can’t be the only one to know this.”   
  
“You’re not,” Bobby said, something processing at the back of his brain. “But I think you stumbled across something, kid.”   
  
“Whoa, really?” Puck said, brightening. He bounced in place, pleased. “Badass.”   
  
“What are you thinking, Bobby?”   
  
“Puck’s right,” Bobby said. “The story says Gabriel slays, or at least is tasked with slaying, Leviathan. But in all the stories Leviathan is a giant serpent.”   
  
“But Leviathan isn’t a serpent,” Dean said. “It possesses people.”   
  
“Like demons?” Kurt asked.   
  
“Kinda,” Sam said. “It can do more with its host, but…” Sam trailed off, and Kurt looked a little paler than usual, though his expression didn’t change.   
  
“Perhaps in its purest form it is a serpent,” Castiel said, shooting a surprisingly coy look at Dean “as I am a Chrysler building.” Bobby wasn’t sure exactly what that was all about, but he could guess from the Sam’s scandalized look. Dean waggled his eyebrows:    
  
“All true.”   
  
Puck was snickering, and Kurt was biting his lip to keep from laughing. Bobby rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the dog and pony show. “So maybe,” Bobby said, “If it’s natural form is a serpent, it needs to be a serpent to be killed. We need to make it manifest as a serpent.”   
  
“That sounds like a terrible idea, Bobby.” Dean said. “How we gonna fight something that huge?”   
  
“We might not have a choice, Dean.” Bobby said, and dropped a book in Dean’s lap. Dean caught it with his junk, and curled in with an ompf. “Right now, we need information. So start reading.” Dean grumbled, but cracked the book.   
  
Bobby sighed, and sat at his desk, pulling down the first book from a pile left from the  last time he had researched Leviathan. He was really getting sick of these damned big mouths.   
  
  
***   
  
After, well,  _everything_ \--He and Kurt, and monsters are real, and Blaine is douche, and fuckin’  _angels_ and ex-angels, and the damned  _Leviathan_ \--Puck was sure things would happen rather quickly. But it was really, actually, kinda the opposite.    
  
Research was  _boring_ _._ If he’d had known Hunting was like school, and not, like, Sports and Glee school, or even Math school, but, like, English school, he might not have jumped on so quickly.    
  
Nah, that was a lie. Because at night, before he went back to Jody’s, but after they finished for the day, sometimes over dinner if they had the energy, the Hunters would tell  _stories._ They retold hunts they had been on, hunts they had heard about, funny hunts, scary hunts, kickass hunts. Puck had heard about werewolves and vampires and shifters and wendigos and demons and the freakin  _apocalypse_ \--how that missed the news, Puck would never know. He was convinced more than ever that there was some sort of conspiracy of ignorance in this country--He heard about the pranks Gabriel had pulled, and the lucky rabbit’s foot, the truth about the  _Supernatural_ books and Becky and Chuck and what the Ghostfacers were really like, and wishes that shouldn’t come true, and--It felt good, hearing those stories. Like Puck was part of something he always needed to be, but never knew he could be.    
  
Kurt, Puck could tell, was equally enraptured by the tales. Sometimes, when they were in Bobby’s den, or scattered across the porch, Kurt would lean into Puck, like he forgot they were trying to keep their distance, enraptured by the story. Puck loved those nights.    
  
And the days; Bobby stopped giving Puck work around the salvage yard pretty quickly, first having Puck read through several books, some in Hebrew some in English, looking for references to the Leviathan. When nothing turned up, and Bobby ran out of books in languages Puck could read, he set Puck up with a Latin primer book, and Puck’s mornings were now spent learning Latin. It was easier than Spanish, but that might have been because Mr. Shue was a terrible Spanish teacher.    
  
Then, in the afternoons, Kurt and Puck would go outside, either with one of the Hunters to learn something new, or by themselves to practice. They started running together, around the yard, and used the junk as an obstacle course, climbing over scraps of metal and jumping between tires. Puck felt his body change, the training making it harden in a way that football never could. He watched Kurt change too, filling out and tightening in a more subtle way than Puck, Kurt would never be built, but sculpted all the same. It was fuckin’ hot, and Puck found it harder and harder to keep his hands to himself when they paused for water out by the van, slick with sweat and flushed, panting for breath and amped up. By mid-July Puck knew they were in the summer days of sex, and it was only a matter of time.    
  
Sometimes, they would bring out the guns, and Puck would learn to shoot. Or Sam and Dean would take out blades, and they’d learn how to fight with different kinds of knives. Kurt and Puck sparred now, dancing around each other, grappling and straining, and--seriously--Puck couldn’t be the only one to see how much of a tease  _that_ was.    
  
But when they would rest, if they needed time away, they would go out to the van to talk. The minibus had gained a number of additions, chalk and marker sigils of protection, more comfortable blankets and pillows, suntan lotion for Kurt to re-apply while they were out in the sun. It made Puck really want to paint “No Girls Allowed” on the side of the bus. It was a pretty epic fort.    
  
Castiel started joining them for bits of their training in early July, and by the beginning of August he was able to keep up with Dean, if not beat him. Puck prayed for the day when he could take Sam in a fair fight, even if Sam did have nearly a foot on him.    
  
Latin mostly under his belt, Bobby gave Puck old journals to read, to learn about what kind of things when bump in the night. It was better than any horror story Puck had ever read, and worse because it was all real, and one wrong move could kill you.    
  
Gabriel came and went as he pleased. Puck wouldn’t blame him. If he had been brought back from the dead after killing his brother, only to be told that he had to go  back into battle where he might die , _again,_ Puck would fuck right off and not come back. He was pretty sure Gabriel was only sticking around because Sam refused to leave. And Sam refused to leave, until they had discovered a way to make Leviathan manifest.    
  
Puck hadn’t been there when the Hunters had grilled Gabriel for information on the Leviathan, but Kurt had. He told Puck later that Gabriel had gone very quiet when asked, and refused to speak. He had snapped, finally, when they kept pressing, saying that only his Father and Death knew how to kill Leviathan, and they weren’t talking. He had disappeared for three days, and came back smelling of sweet brandy and Swiss chocolate. Puck had checked the news that night, but there were no reports of trickery from Sweden.    
  
Puck found himself spending more nights at Bobby’s than at Jody’s stretched out on the lumpy couch. He would say he officially changed residencies when his guitar traveled with him one day, strapped to his back. It was worth the awkward ride to see the way Kurt’s eyes lit up when he saw the instrument.    
  
“Oh,” Kurt said. “Are we going to sing now?”    
  
Puck shrugged. “I figured, as much time as I’m here, I might as well have it. Maybe we’ll take over story time tonight.”    
  
“It’s a date,” Kurt said, and winked. Puck ducked his head to hide the sappy grin on his face. Yeah, he was totally love’s bitch, but hey, so was Spike on Buffy, and he was a badass, so whatever. It was cool.    
  
Dinner that night was up to Sam and Kurt, and therefore healthier than anything else they had been eating. Sam had driven into town around noon, and returned with fresh vegetables and fruit and Puck didn’t know what else, but it made Dean look long suffering. Sam waved off the casual insults that his brother threw his way, and Kurt had simply smacked Dean’s hand with a wooden spoon when he had gone for the ‘fridge door, saying that he knew exactly how Dean ate, and if he wanted to fight him, go ahead, but he’d been having this argument with his Dad, and he always won, _so_ _try it._ Dean had backed down, and when he sat next to Puck, who had been idly plucking at his guitar, Puck said.    
  
“Wise move.”    
  
“Shut up,” Dean muttered. However, when the fresh fruit turned out to be for fresh berry pie, Dean had no complaints.    
  
After dinner, they settled in Bobby’s study, Puck perched on a stool and started strumming the opening to  _The Weight,_ singing the first verse softly to himself. He looked up, startled, when he heard another voice join him on the chorus. Dean was sitting on the couch and was absently sliding his fingers through Cas’s hair. Cas’s eyes were half closed, and his smile grew as Dean sang. Puck dropped out for the second verse, and Dean carried the song, apparently not aware of what he was doing until Kurt and Puck rejoined him on the chorus. He flushed hotly, but didn’t stop his singing. Puck ended the song with a decisive strum, and Kurt clapped.    
  
“Oh, let’s do another,” he said. “I’ve missed singing.”    
  
“You sing every day,” Sam said. “We hear you when you’re in the shower, you know.”    
  
Kurt sniffed. “And are obviously in awe of my talent.”    
  
“Well, I’m done,” Dean said. “One’s enough for me. But, uh, you go right on.”   
  
“I will,” Kurt said. “You know any Who?”    
  
“Some.” Puck said, thinking for a moment.    
  
“Odds and Sods?”    
  
Puck thought, wondering what was on that album--he grinned. “Naked Eye?”    
  
Kurt smiled. “You know me so well,” he said. Puck started to play and when Kurt sang it was with real emotion; Puck was used to the way Kurt performed in Glee, the way certain songs would bring out emotional honesty, and would get moving tears, but this--there was anger here, and frustration, and longing, and Puck played mostly on autopilot, wondering where this Kurt had been hiding.    
  
Puck nodded, thinking for a moment.  “Okay,” he said, and began _“_ _Oh mama, I’m in fear for my life/from the long arm of the law,”_ thumping out the pulse-beat drums on the body of his guitar.  _“Law man has put an end to my running, and I’m so far from my home.”_  Kurt joined in on the second verse, harmonizing, and Puck was once again impressed by how well their voices complimented each other. If Puck was a romantic--well, if Puck ever  _admitted_ he was a romantic, he would have said there was something fated about it. Like the universe wanted them to be together, and really, Puck was beginning to realize he wanted more than a few desperate fumbles in Bobby’s pantry. He wanted Kurt.  And when Kurt screamed the “Yeah!” and Puck really started to play, it was like everything sliding into place. 


	5. Run To The Hills

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, and Dean flinched away, trying to keep his grip on sleep. He rolled over, planning in his sleep-muddled way, to wrap himself around Cas and slip back to sleep. The bed was empty.    
  
Dean opened his eyes. He could hear faint music from Kurt’s room, something with a badass baseline and chick vocals. Just under the music he could hear someone clattering about the kitchen. Dean hoped it was Bobby; Cas was adapting real well to dealing with hunger, but the dude just did  not get food, asking for all kind of weird shit like figs on pizza. Dean wasn’t quite sure what a fig was, but he was damned sure it didn’t belong on a pizza.    
  
With a groan, Dean tossed the covers back, searching the ground for something to wear, coming up with a pair of boxers that he wasn’t sure who wore last, but they passed the sniff test and, well, considering the--heh-- _intimacies_ \--he and Cas had been sharing, wearing the other’s boxers seemed small in comparison.    
  
Dean paused, boxers half up his legs, as he remembered some of those intimacies. He grinned, tongue just coming out to poke at his lip, and dressed with a little shimmy. Maybe he could convince Cas to leave breakfast for later. He grabbed a flannel shirt on his way out the door, just in case Bobby was up. He wouldn’t want to blind him with his awesome.    
  
Sure enough, it was Cas in the kitchen wearing Dean’s pants ( _so that’s where they went!_ Dean stopped for a moment to appreciate the way Cas’s ass looked in his pants), and making something on the stove. The kitchen smelled like coffee and onions, and Dean really hoped that that meant Cas made coffee and omelets, and not coffee omelets. Somebody really needed to take Cas aside and explain food to him.    
  
As Dean entered the kitchen, spotting the percolator on the stove (thank God), he heard Cas humming under his breath. It wasn’t any song Dean recognized, but the bluesy longing in the melody suited Cas’s voice well.    
  
Dean slipped up behind Cas, wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist and kissing the back of his neck. Cas leaned back into the touch, but didn’t stop his humming.    
  
“...this time I’m not leaving without you,” Cas sang softly. Dean frowned. “What are you singing, Cas?”    
  
“Hm. Kurt has been kind enough to share his music with me. I heard it yesterday and it is lodged in my brain.”    
  
“Stuck in your head.”    
  
“Yes. That is what I said.” Cas reached for a place to dish up the omelet, and Dean back away to sit.  _“We got a whole lot of money, but we’re still paying rent. Because you can’t buy a house in heaven.”_ Dean’s eyes opened wide. He knew what song that was. Cas gave him his omelet, but Dean could only stare. “It always interests me to hear human interpretations of Heaven. I find her lyrics to be surprisingly apt.”    
  
_“Gaga?”_ Dean choked out. “You’re singing Gaga?”    
  
“That is her name, yes,” Cas said. “Though Kurt called her 'Mama Monster.' I think he appreciates the irony of being a Hunter and part of a fan base called “Little Monsters” at the same time.”    
  
Cas poured Dean a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. “Here,” Cas said. “You’re usually more responsive than this. Maybe this will help?”    
  
Blindly, Dean took the mug, drinking deep though the coffee scorched his tongue. The pain grounded him. He knew what he had to do.    
  
“Kurt!” he called. “Get down here!”    
  
There was a moment, then Kurt  _sashayed_ down the stairs, and Dean knew, he  knew, that the little shit planned this--this  _betrayal._   
  
“You bellowed?” Kurt asked.    
  
Dean pointed at Kurt. “You know what you did.”    
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow, and looked to Cas.  _They’re in cahoots!_   
  
“I wanted to thank you for yesterday,” Cas said. “I greatly enjoyed the experience.”    
  
“Whoa,” Gabriel said, entering the room. “Kinky, little brother, I like it.”    
  
Dean covered his face with his hand, watching through his fingers as Cas cocked his head at Gabriel and Dean almost had to smirk. He knew the difference between Cas’s head-tilts, now, and this one was Cas’s “playing dumb” head-tilt. But Dean was pissed, so he couldn’t laugh. “Kurt played some music for me. I found myself quite entranced.”    
  
Kurt leaned back against the counter, coffee mug cradled in his hands. “He was especially fond of Mama Monster.” Kurt took a sip. “And the  _Scissor Sisters._ ”    
  
Dean looked at Kurt, to horrified to even be pissed that Gabriel was laughing so hard he was bent over. “You--!”   
  
“Oh, grow up, Dean.” Kurt said. “So Cas likes Lady Gaga. So what. At least it isn’t  _mullet rock._ ”    
  
Oh, bitch, bring it.  “What did you say?”    
  
“You heard me,” Kurt said. “Cas isn’t stuck in the nineteen-eighties.”    
  
“You don’t mess with my music,” Dean said.    
  
“And you don’t mess with mine,” Kurt fired back. “Now play nice, or I’ll replace all your tapes with dance-club remixes.”    
  
Dean swallowed, feeling cold sweat on the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t.”    
  
“I would,” Kurt said.    
  
“I’d help,” Gabriel said. Dean glared, but Gabriel just smiled back.    
  
Bobby entered the kitchen from the backyard, and stopped when everyone stared at him. “What?” Bobby said. “A man can’t enter his own home anymore?” He wiped his boots on the mat. “And what’s everybody arguing about?”    
  
“Dean’s panties are in a twist because Cas likes Lady Gaga.”    
  
“Oh, I like her new album,” Bobby said. Everybody turned to look at him. “Shuddup. She’s got a great voice.” Bobby shifted. “Not like I can’t kick your asses any less because I can appreciate a set of pipes.”    
  
“Bobby,” Dean said. Bobby scowled.   
  
“Oh, grow up, Idjit. We got bigger fish to fry.” Bobby poured the last of the coffee into a mug and sat at the table. “We need intel on that site Roman’s planning on developing. Dean, thanks for volunteering.”    
  
“What!” Dean said. “Bobby! I--”    
  
“Great,” Bobby said. “Take Kurt and Puck with you. Show ‘em how it’s done. There shouldn’t be anyone there, so it should be easy, and more eyes can’t hurt.”    
  
“I’ll text Puck,” Kurt said. “Tell him not to bike in.”    
  
“Excellent,” Bobby said, and drank from his mug. He lowered it halfway to the table. “Well?” he asked. “What are you waiting for?”    
  
Dean sighed and stood. “Come on, Cas,” he said. “I need my pants, and you’re wearing them.”    
  
Cas stood and followed Dean back up the stairs. He heard Gabriel behind him, “You trust them alone when you know one of them will be pantsless, imminently?”    
  
“I’m trying not to think about it,” Bobby said.    
  
“Castiel!” Kurt called up the stairs. “Don’t touch his Disco Stick! We’re on a schedule.”    
  
Dean stumbled, but caught himself quickly.    
  
“But Dean,” Cas said, quietly. “I  _want_ to take a ride on your disco stick.” Dean startled, and looked at Cas in surprise. When he saw the teasing twinkle in Cas’s eye (seriously, his angel was spending too much time with Kurt), Dean sighed and grabbed Cas’s hand.    
  
“I’ve only got one rule for this, Cas,” he said. “No Gaga in the bedroom.”    
  
***   
  
Jody was sleeping, coming off a stint of overnights, and Puck made sure to be extra quiet. The last thing he needed was Jody waking up and asking questions he didn’t know how to answer. All he knew was that Kurt was coming to pick him up, and that it was “best if your aunt doesn’t find out.”    
  
Stuffing a pop-tart in his mouth, Puck went outside to wait. It was early enough to be comfortably cool, but the air had the potential to get very warm. Puck stuck his hands in his pockets, and watched the mostly empty street. Looked like the only other person up was the old man two-hands-down, who was sitting on his porch in an old bathroom, drinking coffee and reading the paper. From where he stood, Puck could see just enough to suspect the robe was  all  the man was wearing. Puck shuddered, and looked away.  _ Nas-ty. _   
  
Puck heard the bass first, a distant thumping that turned into Motorhead when the Impala rounded the corner. Puck raised his eyebrows, but couldn't hide his grin as he jogged down to meet Dean and Kurt.    
  
Dean stopped the car and Kurt got out so Puck could climb into the back. Another time he would bitch about not riding shotgun, but honestly, this was  _awesome._   
  
“Dude, Motorhead?” Puck said, once Kurt was back inside.    
  
“Dean’s attempting to either punish me or brainwash me. I’m not sure which.”    
  
“I woke up this morning and Cas was singing Gaga,” Dean said. “That is not okay.”    
  
Kurt sniffed and Puck realized this was an ongoing argument. “Counter with Kiss, dude.” Puck said. “Worked for us. Well, me.”    
  
Dean’s brow furrowed. “What?”    
  
“Our Glee club did a Gaga week to showcase theatricality,” Kurt said. “The girls and I fully embraced it. The other boys, however, resisted until they found a compromise with Kiss.”    
  
“I was Ace,” Puck said. “And I rocked those whore lips,”    
  
“Whore lips?”    
  
“Yeah, I still don’t get it, either.”    
  
Dean shook his head. “I don’t remember Glee doing anything like that when I was at McKinley.”    
  
Puck understood that. New Directions was unique. Wait-- “You went to McKinley?” Puck asked at the same time Kurt said;    
  
“You were in Glee?”    
  
“I was there for a couple months my senior year,” Dean shrugged. “We moved around too much for clubs, except for Sammy’s soccer. And by high school I was Hunting with Dad, so...” Dean laughed. “I did bang the soloist, though. Pretty little blonde thing. Even screamed on key. Her name was April,” he added with a little grin.    
  
Puck felt his eyes go wide. Kurt’s voice was almost strangled. “April Rhodes?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “That’s her name. You know her?”    
  
“You could say that,” Puck said.    
  
“Shue brought her in as a ringer two years ago,” Kurt said. “She bribed us all with something to get our good sides.” He paused. “She gave me porn and got me drunk.”    
  
“Blowjob in the locker room showers.” Puck said. “Matt, too.” He sighed. “I miss Matt.”    
  
“Matt was there?” Kurt asked. “I thought--”   
  
“Not at the same time,” Puck said. “Fuckin’ shame. Got a nice ass. And wouldn’t blab about it.”   
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean said, stopping the car and holding up his hands. “You got busy with April Rhodes?” He grinned, and held his fist out for Puck to bump. “Rock on.”    
  
Puck smirked, and bumped fists, grinning at the way Kurt rolled his eyes. Dean started the car again and turned the music up. Kurt crossed his arms and slumped down in the seat. Puck saw the smug grin on Dean’s face, and decided he didn’t want to get involved.    
  
When they hit the highway, Puck couldn’t help asking: “So, where are we going?”    
  
“Bobby wants us to check out the construction site. We get intel, you get practice.”    
  
“Sweet,” Puck said, “Field trip!”    
  
Kurt snorted, but Puck knew Kurt was just as excited as he was.    
  
Dean pulled off the highway ten minutes later, and wove through the back roads until he turned onto an unmarked dirt road and shut off the music.    
  
“There isn’t  _supposed_ to be anybody here, Dean said quietly. “Doesn’t mean we should tempt fate. Trust me. She’s a bitch.”    
  
Puck frowned, because that sounded like Fate was a person Dean could meet. Which was ridiculous.  _Right?_   
  
Puck sat up from where he had been slouched over, peering through the window at the woods. There wasn’t much to see--the sun was high but the woods were old, dense and dark. The branches over the road had grown together, shading the path. The woods seemed to brighten just a bit, and Dean stopped the car. Puck looked between the seats to see out the front window, and saw an open clearing before them.    
  
“Come on,” Dean said and got out of the car. Puck followed, climbing over Kurt’s seat, and staggered a bit before he could stand up straight. Dean opened the trunk and Puck joined Kurt to look inside.    
  
Dean lifted the face bottom of the trunk, revealing his cache of weapons. He handed Puck a pair of binoculars and a camera, Kurt a shotgun, and took a machete for himself. “Alright,” Dean said. “From here on out, no speaking unless absolutely necessary. We’re going in, taking pictures, and leaving.” Puck nodded, putting the strap of the camera around his neck while Kurt checked over the gun. In a brief flash of  _old Puck,_ Puck wondered why Hummel got the shotgun. Puckasaurus was the badass. But it faded, and  _New Puck_ knew that Kurt was a better shot and had much more practice. But the flash had left his mark, and Puck was vaguely unsettled as they walked into the woods.    
  
After what felt like forever, but was probably more like fifteen minutes, Dean held up a hand for them to stop, and motioned Puck forward. Puck made his way around the brush and branches. Part of the reason the walk felt so long was their slow pace; constantly stepping around plants and over fallen logs; walking was surprisingly difficult. Dean pointed through the trees at the clearing; there was a silver bullet trailer in the middle of the field. Puck raised the binoculars.   
  
At first he couldn’t see much of anything, just the shine of sunlight off the metal. He adjusted the focus and tried again, this time making out movement in the trailer; there was someone inside. It looked like they were looking his way--and pointing--   
  
Puck jerked back when he realized the Leviathan in the trailer had seen him. “Dean--” he said, but heard a sound behind him, and spun; a second big mouth had snuck up on Kurt and had grabbed him from behind. He had Kurt’s shotgun in one hand, the other wrapped around Kurt’s chest, his mouth hovering near Kurt’s neck. Kurt stared back at Puck with wide eyes, but Puck was frozen. There was--what could he--he had  _no weapon_ \--   
  
“Well, well,” that thing said. “Dean Winchester. And Hansel and Gretel, lost in the woods, stumbling across the gingerbread house.” Puck tensed, because he was pretty sure the big mouth had said he was a girl, and why that pissed him off when he was seconds away from pissing himself, Puck didn’t know.    
  
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Dean said. “People will talk.”    
  
Without warning, Kurt went limp in Leviathan’s eyes, and the knife was out of Dean’s hands and-- _wait, knife? When did Dean get a knife?_ \-- but it didn’t matter because it had dropped Kurt, who was rolling away, grasping the shotgun as he spun, bringing it to bear as he stood.    
  
Dean was faster, darting forward and loping its head off. Dean grabbed the head by the hair and called back, “Run!”    
  
Puck didn’t need to be told twice; he booked it, hearing Kurt hot on his heels, and he spared a glance at the other teen as they ran--Kurt’s face was flushed and his eyes was a bit wild, but that could have been from-- _fuck, tree! No more staring!_ Puck pushed himself harder, and felt Kurt matching him. Puck nearly tripped, grumbling in his head about attack rocks, and then they were back in the Impala, Puck diving into the back, Kurt still in shotgun but this time with the head of a Leviathan in his lap    
  
There was no room to turn around so Dean simply tossed it into reverse and backed down the drive, just as fast as they had entered. Puck couldn’t remember the road being this long before, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any longer, Dean’s tires hit asphalt and he threw the car in drive and they were off in a squeal of tires.    
  
“Out the window,” Dean said. “Toss it, Kurt.”    
  
Kurt rolled down the window, but balked at touching the head. “Kurt!” Dean snapped, and Kurt tossed the head, lifting with just his fingertips, but he still looked at his hands like they needed to be boiled and sterilized.    
  
They drove on in silence for a minute, checking the rearview mirrors to no avail. Once Dean was sure they weren’t being followed, Kurt found his voice.    
  
_ “ You said it was a simple recon! ” _   
  
“It was supposed to be,” Dean growled back.    
  
_ “ Of all the-- _ _”_ Kurt started, but cut himself off and sat back in his chair.    
  
“O all the what?” Dean said. “Say it.”    
  
“Thank you, Dean. You’re much better in a crisis than I am.” Kurt’s voice was flat, monotone, and Dean looked over, placing a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and rubbing. “You weren’t so bad yourself, kiddo,” Dean said. Kurt sighed.    
  
“I know.”    
  
***   
  
Kurt was fine.    
  
Dean leaned over and popped open the glove box, pulled out a wad of McDonald’s napkins, and dropped them in Kurt’s lap.    
  
Kurt’s hands were covered in black gunk from where he had grabbed the Leviathan head. Gingerly, he picked up the napkins one by one and scrubbed, flinging each out the window once it was covered in black.    
  
“Puck, you okay?” Dean asked.    
  
“Yeah,” Puck said. Kurt scrubbed harder.    
  
“Kurt--”   
  
“I’m fine,” Kurt said. “Pissed if anything. I should have heard him coming. I should have--” Kurt cut himself off with a growl.    
  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Maybe you should have, but those fucks get the drop on us all the time and we’ve been doing this a whole hell of a lot longer.”    
  
Kurt kept his eyes on his hands. The tissues were almost gone and there was just so much  _black_ left. Kurt was fine.    
  
Dean sighed. “We survived. We have info. Some days, that’s a freakin miracle.”    
  
Kurt tossed the last tissue out the window. He was fine.   
  
“Hunting is survival. As long as you live, you win.”    
  
“It’s not good enough,” Kurt said. Dean was quiet for a moment.    
  
“It never is,” he said. “But you make do.”    
  
Kurt looked at his hands, saw the black embedded around his nail beds. The girls would be horrified. Well, Tina might find it cool, but--Kurt realized Dean was watching him. He sighed. He was done feeling like this. “I’m fine, Dean,” Kurt said. “I’m unhurt and we’re free. I’m fine.”    
  
“There were two,” Puck said. “Another watching from the trailer. It saw everything.”   
  
Kurt felt his heart skip. If Leviathan knew they were onto it, it might retaliate, hunt them down in their sleep and--   
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Dean said, voice flat. “Leviathan knows where we are--it has since the beginning. It just doesn’t care--Doesn’t think we’re a threat.”    
  
“And you think acting otherwise is smart?” Kurt asked, sharp. “They see us gain an advantage, they’ll squash us before we get too big.”   
  
“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Dean said. “We’re talking about Leviathan. If Leviathan wants us, it’ll be because we’re annoying, but because we’re a threat.”   
  
Kurt swallowed. That wasn’t very comforting.    
  
It was quiet in the car after that, and Kurt was so glad his manicure habit had broken him of biting his nails. Because this stress was extremely tempting, and he didn’t think anything good could come of eating Leviathan blood.    
  
After a while, Dean turned on the radio, switching the tape to Blue Oyster Cult. A concession, then. Or an apology. And Kurt was very glad he didn’t believe in omens, because he would have freaked out, as  _Don’t Fear the Reaper_ played while they drove .   
  
They returned just past lunchtime, and Dean went to tell Bobby what they learned, (“Fuckers are there, alright. Two of ‘em, and one nearly got Kurt. Milk run my ass!” “Calm down. Kurt’s fine.” “What were they doing?” “They had a trailer.” “And?” “And nothing. That’s all we know.” “What  _are_ they up to?”), and Kurt went to raid the refrigerator.    
  
Nothing. There was nothing to eat, all they had was orange juice, and how were they supposed to do anything on a diet of OJ and--   
  
Puck took the carton out of Kurt’s hand and put it down on the counter. Kurt’s hand balled into a shaking fist and--oh.  _He_ was shaking. Puck pulled Kurt into his arms and held him until Kurt felt the tremors subside. Then, Puck pulled away, poured Kurt a glass of juice and watched him drink it.   
  
Puck took the empty cup, refilled it, gave it to Kurt, and pointed to the table. Kurt followed instructions, bemused, and watched Puck make him a sandwich. Puck never said a word and Kurt relaxed. He  was fine.   
  
Puck sat with his own sandwich, and Kurt watched Puck open his mouth to take a bite--   
  
Kurt’s heart raced in his chest; he could feel the blood drain from his face and the room tilted alarmingly. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.    
  
Puck chewed, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, eyes narrowed at Kurt. Kurt could see the question in them.    
  
“I’m fine,” Kurt said, and forced himself to take another bite.    
  
***   
  
To say things had settled by early August wouldn’t be true; Puck had settled into a routine--get up, go to Bobby’s, study, lunch with Kurt, training, dinner, research or stories, home--but the tension at the salvage yard only grew as summer inched by and the Leviathans stayed out of sight.   
  
“It’s like they know,” Dean said one morning in early August. Puck was sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table, books spread before him. He had an English to Latin dictionary, a grammar book,  _Ye Booke of Olde and Nice Prohesye,_ and a notebook. Puck looked up, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He had started wearing them again for these morning study sessions after the third day when his morning eyestrain had affected his aim on the shooting range; Kurt’s frankly approving once over didn’t hurt either.    
  
Dean sat in the chair across from puck, mug of coffee in one hand, and flung the paper onto the table with the other. “They know we know they know, so they’re waiting us out.”    
  
“Funk out,” Puck nodded. “It’s a good tactic.” He paused, thinking of the last “funk out” he had faced. “I don’t think singing George Clinton for them is gonna cut it, though.”    
  
Dean frowned at Puck. “What?”    
  
“Glee thing,” Puck said. “Last time we faced a Funk out, we sang “We Want the Funk” at them, proving that while they might be soulless automatons with epic choreography, we’ve got soul, and therefore can dominate an entire genre of music they can’t touch.”    
  
“Does everything come back to Glee with you?” Dean asked.    
  
Puck paused, thinking. It was a running joke in Glee that all serious emotion had to be expressed through song, but Puck was beginning to think it was more than that; everything was expressed through song. Even things that may be better left unsaid. He had started to think in lyrics, and when he couldn’t find a song that fit, there was always a mash-up. “Yeah,” he said, slowly. “I really think it does.”   
  
Dean nodded, slowly. “What’s your opinion on Metallica?”    
  
Puck grinned.    
  
***   
  
Kurt was upstairs, on Skype with Finn (and wasn’t Finn’s reaction priceless when he saw just how dressed down Kurt was letting himself be. “It’s good to see you relax, man,” Finn had said. “I mean, your fashion is cool, and all, but it’s like, now I can see you, not your clothes.” Kurt hadn’t really known what to say to that; Finn could be really insightful when he wasn’t trying to be.), when he heard singing coming from the kitchen. He paused, cocking his head to listen.    
  
_“Timmy in the well?”_ Finn asked.    
  
“What?” Kurt said. “Oh, no. I just heard Puck singing, that’s all.”    
  
_“Oh yeah?”_ Finn asked.  _“Anything good? It’s never too early to start thinking up set lists for Sectionals.”_   
  
“Rainbow - _“Black Sheep of the Family”_ ,” Kurt said, finally identifying the lyrics. He paused when Finn’s words registered. “You’ve been spending too much time with your girlfriend, Finn.”    
  
Finn shrugged, smiling easy.  _“Nah. I figure, the more time I spend with her, the more likely my chances of finally getting to touch her boobs.”_   
  
“Ew,” Kurt said, making a face. “I understand you like them, and all, but--no.”    
  
Finn laughed, his face lighting up. Kurt smiled at him, so glad that he and Finn had settled into really feeling like brothers. Kurt had gotten over his rather embarrassing crush quite quickly, and Finn had made such strides toward, not just acceptance, but support--Kurt knew how important family was, and Finn was family now.    
  
On screen, Finn jumped, and pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen, and smiled sheepishly at Kurt. Kurt hid a grin.    
  
“Have you been summoned?”    
  
_“Kinda,”_ Finn said. _ “Catch up tomorrow?”    
_   
“Sure,” Kurt said, and waved before Finn disconnected the chat. He closed his computer, and followed the music down to the kitchen. The radio was playing softly in the background, and because Kurt was simply full of natural talent, he entered the kitchen in time to join in on the end of the next song:    
  
_ “For we grew up tall and proud   
In the shadow of the mushroom cloud   
Convinced our voices can't be heard   
We just wanna scream it louder and louder and louder” _   
  
Puck and Dean grinned at Kurt, and, since performing was at least 60% of his DNA, Kurt hammed it up for his audience, punching the air like Freddie Mercury, and letting himself just enjoy as his voice danced around Puck’s.    
  
_ “What the hell we fighting for?   
Just surrender and it won't hurt at all   
You just got time to say your prayers   
_ _While you're waiting for the hammer to fall!”_   
  
Kurt held the last pose, and tried to hide a grin as Dean laughed. “Rock on!” Dean said. He stood, “But fun as this is, Bobby’s been on my ass to help with the wards, and I wanna get it done before the rains.”    
  
“It’s okay,” Kurt said. “It’s about time for our run.”    
  
Puck groaned, dropping his head to the desk, but Kurt wasn’t too worried. He knew how much Puck enjoyed the activity after a long morning stuck at a desk. Sure enough, Puck perked up quickly, and packed his books away. Dean left out the back door, and Kurt went to wait for Puck on the front porch.    
  
It was hot, that dead-of-summer sticky heat, heavy with the hint of thunderstorms. Kurt felt sweat break out on the small of his back and settle with nowhere to go. This run wasn’t going to be pleasant. He looked at the sky. The clouds had begun to gather earlier that morning, and had darkened steadily since then. Kurt hoped the rain would come soon; something needed to break.    
  
Puck joined Kurt, and they set off without a word, down the steps and out along the path to hug the outer fence on their first run though.    
  
Kurt never thought he’d come to enjoy running; it always had too many connotations of running  _away_ from whatever undereducated Neanderthal was chasing him that day. But this, the easy rhythm of his stride, the moments of lift as he jumped over a branch or a tire,  _this_ was almost fun. And having Puck run with him, keeping pace  _with_ him and not  _after_ him, though it had been nearly two years since Puck had been that bully, and Puck was chasing him in a whole new way now; it felt good to have a partner, _ right .    
_   
And the way Puck’s shirt clung to him in the moments before he took it off completely, well, that didn’t hurt,  either .    
  
The first drop hit Kurt on the neck, and for a moment, he thought it was just sweat dripping from his hair. Then the next drop hit his nose, then his cheek. Then the skies opened and a few drops became a whiteout of rain.    
  
Kurt stopped running, unsure of what was in front of him, and Puck pulled up next to him. Already they were both soaked through, and about as far from the house as they could get. Kurt began to laugh.    
  
“This isn’t rain,” he said, trying to raise his voice over the sound of the rain. “It’s a waterfall.”    
  
“Feels  _amazing!_ ” Puck crowed, and raised his hands and face to the sky. He looked down a moment, later, snorting and coughing after the water had rushed up his nose.    
  
“Come on,” Kurt said. “Let’s get inside before we drown.” Kurt picked his way over to the minibus, laughing as they slid in the mud. Puck reached the van first and Kurt scrambled in after him, still giggling. It was louder than Kurt had expected in the van, the water pounding on the metal roof, but leak free. Puck was already digging for a towel, and Kurt had to giggle.   
  
“What?” Puck said, looking over his shoulder with a grin.   
  
“I am soaked,” Kurt said, pulling the damp fabric away from his skin. “Okay,” he said. “Nothing for it. This shirt’s got to go.” He gripped the bottom the shirt, arms crossed over his front, and tried to pull it off in one smooth motion, but the wet fabric wouldn’t cooperate, stretching and sticking where it shouldn’t and Kurt got caught with the shirt halfway over his head. “Shit,” he muttered, and heard Puck laugh.   
  
“Here,” Puck said, and Kurt felt Puck try and untangle the shirt; Kurt stopped moving when he felt Puck’s fingers graze his exposed skin, his breath catching. Puck froze too, and Kurt knew Puck heard him, but then Puck was tugging and Kurt’s shirt finally came off, and Puck was right there and Kurt heard a whimper and didn’t know if it was him or Puck, but it didn’t matter because they were kissing, finally  _kissing_ after  _weeks,_ Puck’s mouth hot and dirty against his own, and it was everything Kurt ever wanted from a kiss and never got and—   
  
Kurt moaned into the kiss, he knew it was him because he could feel it, he could feel everything and nothing but Puck’s mouth on his own, and—   
  
Oh—   
  
Puck’s hand on Kurt’s neck, holding him in place and Kurt gasped against Puck’s mouth, and Puck’s tongue licked against Kurt’s lips, his teeth, and Kurt had never been more turned on in his life and—   
  
Kurt kneeled up, drawing Puck with him, his hands on the other boy’s wrists, running down his arms and up over his shoulders, one hand cupping Puck’s jaw, and the other stroking down over Puck’s chest, feeling those muscles, stuttering over his scarred nipple to feel Puck jerk against him, and down, skimming along Puck’s side to grip his waist.   
  
Puck pulled away with a gasp. “God-” he muttered, looking down at Kurt’s chest. “You—”   
  
“Yeah,” Kurt panted, his eyes tracing a drop of water down Puck’s neck. He swayed forward, caught it on his tongue, and licked his way up Puck’s neck.   
  
“Fuck—,” Puck growled, and grabbed Kurt’s hips with both hands, and  _pulled_ Kurt forward and Kurt jerked when cock—god he was hard, he couldn’t remember ever being this hard, this fast—ground against Puck’s, and he bit down on Puck’s neck, and Puck’s head went back, and he rolled his hips, he rolled their hips, and Kurt felt it, sensation light lightning along his nerves   
  
Puck broke the kiss with a soft groan and Kurt followed, seeking with his mouth. Why was Puck stopping, Kurt didn’t want to stop; this felt so good,  _why are you stopping?_   
  
Puck pressed his cheek to Kurt’s temple. “Gotta calm down,” he muttered. “We can’t--” Puck cut himself off.    
  
Something sparked in Kurt. “Why not?” He whined, glaring up at Puck. “I said I was ready. Or do you not want  _me_ _,_ either?”    
  
Puck’s expression darkened. “Oh, I want you,” he said, and ground their hips together again. Kurt groaned, eyes slipping shut as pleasure sparked. “Don’t you doubt that I want you in a bad way,” Puck growled. “But I am not  _that guy_ anymore. I’m not gonna treat you like some casual hook-up . ” Kurt met Puck’s eyes, and Puck continued, his expression intense. “That means we’re going to take it slow until we’re both ready.” He paused, softening slightly as he said. “Because you may be ready, but I don’t think I--” Puck swallowed. “I’ve never--not with another guy, and definitely not with someone who matters. I don’t want to rush in and fuck this up.”    
  
Kurt realized he was grinning, helplessly. “That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”    
  
Puck snorted, and rolled his eyes, but he had a small smile on his face.    
  
“Hey,” Kurt said, smile softening. He could get used to that smile, seeing it across the table, or the last thing at night, or across the room in Glee--Kurt’s smile fell. Bobby’s place was so complete, Hunting so separate from his everyday life, it was easy to forget that they had to go back to Lima. Already, it seemed like so much had happened, going back would be impossible; The Kurt and Puck here, in the van, were very different from the Kurt and Puck of New Directions. Going back to that would feel like--like backsliding.    
  
“What are you thinking,” Puck asked, a hint of wariness entering his voice.    
  
_Here it is,_ Kurt thought.  _Moment of truth._ “I have to hide so much, Puck. I’m not going to hide my relationships, too. And I want it. I want you. And I want it all. And if you can’t give me that, then…” Kurt trailed off. It was an empty threat; if Puck didn’t want to be out in Lima, then they would have just one more thing to hide. But Kurt was so sick and tired of hiding.   
  
Puck eased under him. “That’s it? Kurt, Babe,” Puck ran a hand through Kurt’s hair, and Kurt’s eyes fluttered at the sensation. Puck paused, and Kurt opened his eyes. Puck leaned in close, enunciating. “Fuck hiding. I just bagged the hottest piece of ass in Lima. I want bragging rights.”   
  
Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Hottest piece of ass, huh?” he asked, voice dry. Did Puck really think it could be that easy?   
  
“Hell, yeah,” Puck said. “I’ve made a study. I have a chart and everything.”   
  
“Not everybody would agree,” Kurt said softly. “Like, oh, the  _Hockey team._ ”   
  
Puck sighed, settled both hands on Kurt’s hips. “I know people will be dicks. I’m gonna get slushied,  _we’re_ gonna get slushied like never before. The team might even try to start shit again. But we only have one more year. And we have Glee, and new mad ninja skills,” Kurt laughed at this and Puck went on, “but  _I don’t_ _care_.  I go where my heart leads, and I’m not hiding that.”   
  
Kurt smiled, feeling something warm and nervous spread from his heart. “Even if I start calling you ridiculous pet names? Pookie?” he asked, and bit his tongue to keep from smiling.   
  
“I can give as good as I get, _cuddlebuns._ ”   
  
“Cuddlebuns!” Kurt said, head snapping up. Puck grinned at him, and pulled him into another kiss.  _It was going to be hard to be mad at Puck as long as he kissed like that,_ Kurt thought. He pulled away long enough to murmur, “boyfriend?”   
  
“Yeah?” Puck asked, nuzzling along Kurt’s jaw.   
  
“No, I mean—are we…?”   
  
“Yeah,” Puck said, Pulling back to look at Kurt. “I’d like that.”   
  
“Me, too,” Kurt said.   
  
“Awesome,” Puck said. “Can we make out some more?”   
  
Kurt nodded. “Fuck, yes.” Puck’s next “awesome” was lost in Kurt’s mouth. Neither minded.   
  
***   
  
Sam was in Bobby’s office when the rain started, idly browsing through the usual sites on his laptop, looking for something--a hunt, Leviathan,  _anything,_ \--that would break the monotony and at least give the impression of forward momentum.  He looked out the window at the sound, and raised his eyes at the force of the weather.    
  
He frowned. They had said rain, yes, but this seemed--excessive. Sam opened a new browser window and brought up the area’s weather forecast. It was probably nothing; Sam was so desperate for something that he was reading too much into things, but he’d rather look and find nothing, then not look and be caught by surprise.    
  
It looked to be just another summer storm. Sam slumped. He had been so sure that there was something supernatural behind the weather--   
  
“What makes you so sure there isn’t?” said an all-too familiar voice, gravel-deep, British, and smug. Sam turned his head.    
  
“Crowley,” Sam said. Crowley grinned back at him.    
  
“Sam Winchester,” he looked Sam over, very slowly and very obviously. “You look--whole.”    
  
“You look like you have thirty seconds to explain what you’re doing here before I exorcise your ass,” Sam countered, standing. Sam had learned early what his height could do for him; generally, it didn’t matter how powerful someone was, if you had height on them, you could intimidate them. Crowley raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.    
  
“Maybe I’m not here for you,” Crowley said. “Maybe I have some unfinished business with the Master of the House.”    
  
Sam frowned. “What do you want with Bobby?”    
  
Crowley leered. “The better question, is what  _don’t_ I want with Bobby.”    
  
“You--” Sam said, pointing a finger and stepping forward. He stopped when he heard the cocking of a shotgun behind him. They both turned; Bobby stood in the doorway, shotgun pointed at Crowley. Crowley grinned.    
  
“Hello.  _Darling._ ”    
  
“Shuddup,” Bobby sneered. “Back up.”    
  
Crowley raised an eyebrow, but he sighed, and took a step back into, Sam realized, the hold of the devil’s trap painted under the rug. “Satisfied?” Crowley asked.    
  
“No,” Bobby said. “You’re still here.”    
  
“Harsh, Lover-lips. And I’ve even come to help.”    
  
“Why?” Bobby asked. “Why now? You’ve done good keeping your nose out of it, so far.”    
  
Crowley sniffed, and drained his tumbler. When he lowered the glass, it was still half-full. “Make no mistake; I want that insignificant piece of purgatory puss whipped from the arsehole of existence. It has come to my attention that you have a--let’s call it a plan.” He inspected his fingernails. “I’ve come to offer my--support.”    
  
“You don’t seem too enthusiastic about that,” Bobby said.    
  
Crowley looked at Bobby, exasperated. “I have the legions of Hell at my beck and call, and I am  _offering them to you on a silver platter,_ and you take issue with my  _enthusiasm?_ ”  Crowley sighed. “Humans.”    
  
“How did you find out about our plan?” Sam asked. If Crowley knew, then--   
  
“I was told,” Crowley said. “By your little boyfriend.”    
  
“Less on the ‘little,’ thanks,” Gabriel said, stepping out from behind Sam from nowhere.    
  
Crowley looked between Sam and Gabriel, and Sam bristled. “Oh, that’s precious,” Crowley said. “Rather like a Chihuahua mounting a Great Dane.”    
  
Gabriel snorted and snapped his fingers as Crowley took a sip of his drink. He spat it to the floor, mouth smoking. “Ouch.” Crowley hissed.    
  
“Behave,” Gabriel said. Sam couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud of Gabriel at that moment; there was no mistaking the power he had, even if Gabriel was just standing there in his unassuming vessel, the stick of a lollipop hanging from his lips.    
  
“You’re a  _dick,_ ” Crowley hissed. “Sssweet Manchester, that hurtssss.”    
  
“Gabe?” Sam asked. Gabriel looked evenly at Sam, working the stick from one side of his mouth to the other. After a long moment, Gabriel took the lollipop from his mouth.    
  
“We’re going up against something so old and powerful, my Dad _locked it away_ rather than unmaking it. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”    
  
And suddenly, Sam knew exactly where Gabriel had been disappearing to. He hadn’t been playing tricks--well, maybe he  _had,_ but not exclusively. He had been gathering allies.    
  
“Thank you,” Sam said quietly. Gabriel met his eyes, white light burning from a pinprick in his pupils, and Sam knew Gabriel had heard all he hadn’t said.    
  
“Don’t thank me yet,” Gabriel said. “You don’t know how many I talked to. Crowley’s been the only one to take me up on my offer.”    
  
Crowley sniffed. “My pride was at stake,” he said. Sam glanced over at him. Crowley seemed to have recovered from his holy-water cocktail.    
  
“Roman turned down his offer,” Gabriel said. Crowley glared at him.    
  
The front door slammed, and Sam recognized Dean’s footsteps. Sure enough, he called out from the kitchen. “Fucking monsoon. Bobby, where’re the fucking towels?” Gabriel snapped and Sam heard Dean skitter to a stop. “Gabe? When did you get back?” His footsteps started again, and he appeared in the doorway. “Did you get the--why the fuck’re you here?” Dean stopped short, looking at Crowley.   
  
“I’ve been enlisted,” Crowley said.    
  
Dean looked at Sam. Sam shrugged; no he wasn’t sure why either, but everything seemed under control.    
  
Gabriel spoke around the lollipop in his mouth. “Pie is in the ‘fridge. Apple-cranberry crumble.”    
  
Dean perked up a bit, “Awesome.” He didn’t move, however, other than to look away from Sam to glare at Crowley. Gabriel snapped and a gap appeared in the paint.    
  
“I’ve had enough,” Crowley said, and stepped out of the trap. Sam took a step back and felt foolish; if Crowley was going to hurt them, he could have done so from within the circle. He felt a little better when Bobby and Dean stepped back, too. Gabriel hadn’t, however, and was now smirking slightly at the three of them. Crowley kept speaking; “You know how to get in touch.” He paused, and winked at Bobby. “Call me,” he said, and was gone.    
  
There was a long pause in the wake of his departure. Then Bobby said, “Goddammit, we never asked about the manifestation.”    
  
“You could always try and seduce it from him with your wiles, Bobby,” Dean said.    
  
“Shuddup, idjit.”    
  
Sam sank down into the couch, listening with only half and ear as Bobby and Dean snipped at each other. He started to clear his computer, done with research for the moment, when he felt the couch dip next to him.    
  
“Hey,” Gabriel said quietly. “Sorry.” Sam looked over at Gabriel, still wearing the face of his male vessel, contrition hanging heavily on his features, and Sam felt a warmth in his chest swell. He reached out with and arm and wrapped it around Gabriel’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Gabriel stiffened with surprise; they had never--not while Gabriel was a man. But Sam was tired, and cranky, and bored out of his freakin’ mind, and all he wanted was to hold his love close; his love who had scoured the globe looking for help for a hopeless cause. Slowly, Gabriel relaxed into the hold, his head coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder, and he breathed in the scent of fresh candied apples.    
  
Sam was aware that Dean and Bobby were staring at them, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He moved his mouse to close the last browser window, and paused. He leaned in closer, dislodging Gabriel, who made an indignant noise.    
  
“Guys,” Sam said. “I think I have it.” He looked up, and turned the screen around. “It’s a manifestation spell, and I’m pretty sure it’ll work. Now all we need to do is figure out how to kill it.” Sam grinned. “We’re halfway there.” Bobby and Dean looked at the screen, dumbfounded. Next to Sam, Gabriel smirked.    
  
***   
  
Jody Mills was, by and large, a patient woman. You had to be when you policed a place like Sioux Falls; the greatest weapon in her arsenal was her ability to use her silence. She didn’t have to stay quiet forever, just long enough to make the other person speak first. Or act first. Or incriminate themselves. A guilty conscience can’t abide silence; people who are kept waiting will generally reveal more than they intend to. So, when Jody heard a representative of Roman Industries site wanted to meet with her, Jody took her time heading back to the station.    
  
Deputy Burns met Jody at the door. “He’s been in your office for almost an hour,” he said. The rain poured down heavily behind her, and water dripped from the rubber covering on her hat. Burns glanced back over his shoulder and Jody raise an eyebrow at the obvious tell. “Hasn’t said a word.” Then Burns tipped his hat, and passed her to his car.    
  
Jody nodded to herself and entered the station, doffing her hat, and holding it lightly by the lip as she checked the logs at the front desk. The secretary, Vicky, leaned in close, snapping her gum. Jody smelled cinnamon.    
  
“I don’t like that one,” Vicky said in undertone. “There’s something off about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it?”    
  
Jody met Vicky’s eyes and nodded, knowing that, from a distance, it looked like she was nodding at the log. “I’ll take care of it,” Jody murmured. She looked around the desk, and said. “Hey Vick, can you hand me those files?”    
  
Vicky frowned, but collected the files and handed them over. “They’re just waiting to be filed.”   
  
“Perfect,” Jody said, juggling the stack of files. It was nearly a foot high, and the papers slides precariously. “I’ll bring them right back.”    
  
Papers in hand, Jody walked across to her office. Being the Sheriff, Jody had the nicest office in the building, big and with several large glass windows to watch not only the outside, but the happenings in the bullpen. She saw him, sitting in the chair across from her desk, straight backed but not stiff, and--off. Jody frowned. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was off, and that bothered her more than anything.    
  
Jody shifted the files, scrabbling for the doorknob, and just managed to open the door before everything fell from her hands.    
  
“Sorry about that,” Jody said. “I’m Sheriff Mills.”    
  
The suit stood, turning to offer his hand with a smile. “Trent Peterson, Roman Industries.”    
  
Jody ignored his hand, making a point to juggle the papers. Trent just stood with his hand out, like he didn’t know what to do if somebody refused to shake his hand. Jody waited until he had put his hand down before she “finally” put the files down on her desk, and sat in the chair with the desk between them. She waved for him to sit. Trent sat, smooth and still with that congenial smile, like that moment of hesitation had never happened. Jody didn’t like that smile.    
  
“So,” Jody said. “What brings you here, Mr. Peterson?”    
  
“Well,” Trent said. “As you know, Roman Industries has interest in developing this area, and has been working towards that end for the last few months.”    
  
“The alternative energy power plant,” Jody said, shifting some of the files off the pile into a smaller stack. “Yes, the whole town’s been buzzing with it.”    
  
“Then you’ll know Dick Roman himself will be in town next week for the breaking ground ceremony.”    
  
Jody paused, “I had heard a rumor to that effect, yes. Are you expecting some kind of security risk?”    
  
“Not at all,” Trent said. “Mr. Roman travels with his own personal security, and they have an impeccable record. Unfortunately, not everyone reacts to their presence...favorably. I have been sent ahead to smooth any ruffled feathers.”    
  
Jody sat back. “You saying there might be some kind of riot, Mr. Peterson?”    
  
Trent shook his head. “Nothing of the kind.” He hesitated, and Jody knew, _knew,_ that it was staged for effect. “The unfavorable reaction usually comes from within local law enforcement.”    
  
Jody smiled at that. “My force isn’t the type to get territorial when someone’s life is at stake.”    
  
“Nevertheless,” Trent said. “I’m making a formal request to the Sioux Falls Sheriff department to let Roman Securities handle both Mr. Roman’s visit, and the policing of the construction zone.    
  
Keep out, Jody thought.  _And not very subtle. Either he doesn’t think too highly of a backwater sheriff, or he doesn’t care._ She folded her hands in front of her, and watched Trent though half-open eyes. She leaned over to open her bottom drawer, watching Trent through the corner of her eye so she caught the flash of hunger in his eyes, the momentary widening of his mouth.  _Big Mouth!_ She grabbed the permit she was looking for, and placed it on the desk in front of Trent, making sure to pull back before he reached for it.    
  
“You’ll need to fill out that form,” Jody said, “before I can formally accept your request. But I don’t foresee there being any problems.” She smiled at him, and Trent returned it, standing. Jody stayed seated, and Trent didn’t offer his hand again.    
  
“Pleasure doing business, Sheriff.”    
  
“Have a good day, now,” Jody said, watching him leave. As soon as he was out of sight, Jody was on her feet, gathering the files. She jammed her hat on her head, and dropped the stack of files on Vicky’s desk as she passed by, headed towards the gun locker. She signed out two shotguns, two boxes of shells, and grabbed her Kevlar. Within minutes she was back in her car, driving as fast as she could in the rain towards Singer Salvage. She had to talk to Bobby. Now. 


	6. Hammer to Fall

“So,” Dean said, clapping his hands. “What do we know about this thing?” He sat on the edge of Bobby’s desk and rubbed his hands together.   
  
“No much,” Sam said. He was on the couch, computer in his lap. “We’re working mostly off of rumors of legends.”   
  
“Leviathan was the boogey man to angels, too,” Gabriel said. He was sitting on the floor at Sam’s feet--no, he was sitting _on_ Sam’s feet. Dean looked away, determined not to think about it. “Unkillable. No grace. No _soul._ ”   
  
“There were two,” Cas said. He still hovered in the doorway, arms wrapped around himself. Dean tried to meet his eyes but Cas wouldn’t look up from the floor. “Male and Female.”   
  
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “and Dad _unmade_ the female because he was afraid of what they would do to the Earth if they multiplied.   
  
“Well, that’s something,” Sam said. “We know that there were two, and now there’s one.”   
  
“One’s enough,” Dean muttered.   
  
“And Dad’s not stepping in this time,” Gabriel said. “I’d have heard about it,” he tapped his forehead, and Dean realized for the first time that they had a direct link to God himself; and it was silent. Freakin’ figures.   
  
The front door banged open, and Puck and Kurt ran through, soaking wet, half-clothed and dripping. They stood in the foyer, breathing heavy and focused solely on each other. Dean watched with a barely repressed smirk as Puck reached for Kurt, only to have Kurt back away, towards the stairs. If the hickeys on Kurt’s neck were anything to go by, dark purple against his pale skin, Kurt wasn’t planning on running for long. Puck chased Kurt up the stairs, and everyone looked towards the stairs until they heard a door slam.   
  
“Unbelievable,” Bobby muttered. Gabriel started to chuckle.   
  
“They should hear this,” Cas said. “They are a part of this, now.”   
  
“Oh, I got this one,” Gabriel said, and snapped. A second later Dean heard a shout and a thump, and a door opening.   
  
“Gabriel!” Kurt screeched.   
  
Gabriel just laughed, sharp and delighted. A few moments later Kurt and Puck came back down the stairs, faces red, but they were fully dressed and dry.   
  
“You’re a bastard,” Kurt hissed at Gabriel.   
  
“What did you do?” Dean heard Sam whisper to Gabriel. Well, he guessed everyone heard it, because Kurt turned the color of a tomato, and even Puck blushed.   
  
“That’s not important,” Kurt said. “We’re here, now.” Gabriel snapped and another chair, an overstuffed armchair covered with what looked to be some very soft leather, appeared in the corner. Kurt raised his eyebrow at Gabriel, but pushed Puck into the chair, then sat himself, curling around the other teen. Dean wondered if he hadn’t just seen some kind of weird apology.   
  
“Here,” Bobby said, walking over from the bookshelf, large tome cradled in his hands. He went to lean against the desk, right where Dean was. Bobby stopped, and looked up to glower at Dean. Dean raised his hands, and sat next to Sammy on the couch. Bobby’s settled into his space in front of the desk. “It’s from the _Tanakh_ , the Jewish Bible.” He began to read:  
  


> _1 Can you pull in the leviathan with a fishhook or tie down his tongue with a rope?_
> 
> _2 Can you put a cord through his nose or pierce his jaw with a hook?_
> 
> _3 Will he keep begging you for mercy? Will he speak to you with gentle words?_
> 
> _4 Will he make an agreement with you for you to take him as your slave for life?_
> 
> _5 Can you make a pet of him like a bird or put him on a leash for your girls?_
> 
> _6 Will traders barter for him? Will they divide him up among the merchants?_
> 
> _7 Can you fill his hide with harpoons or his head with fishing spears?_
> 
> _8 If you lay a hand on him, you will remember the struggle and never do it again!_
> 
> _9 Any hope of subduing him is false; the mere sight of him is overpowering._

  
“Oh, that sounds promising,” Dean said, sharing a look with Sam. Bobby kept reading.    
  


> _10 No-one is fierce enough to rouse him. Who then is able to stand against me?_
> 
> _11 Who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to me._
> 
> _12 I will not fail to speak of his limbs, his strength and his graceful form._
> 
> _13 Who can strip off his outer coat? Who would approach him with a bridle?_
> 
> _14 Who dares open the doors of his mouth, ringed about with his fearsome teeth?_
> 
> _15 His back has rows of shields tightly sealed together;_
> 
> _16 each is so close to the next that no air can pass between._
> 
> _17 They are joined fast to one another; they cling together and cannot be parted._
> 
> _18 His snorting throws out flashes of light; his eyes are like the rays of dawn._
> 
> _19 Firebrands stream from his mouth; sparks of fire shoot out._
> 
> _20 Smoke pours from his nostrils as from a boiling pot over a fire of reeds._
> 
> _21 His breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from his mouth._

  
“It’s a freakin  _dragon?_ ” Puck said, eyes wide. Dean’s own eyes widened, stuck between fear and excitement. Fear, because they’d have to kill it, and excitement because, well,  _ freakin’ dragon.  
_  


> _22 Strength resides in his neck; dismay goes before him._
> 
> _23 The folds of his flesh are tightly joined; they are firm and immovable._
> 
> _24 His chest is hard as rock, hard as a lower millstone._
> 
> _25 When he rises up, the mighty are terrified; they retreat before his thrashing._
> 
> _26 The sword that reaches him has no effect, nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin._
> 
> _27 Iron he treats like straw and bronze like rotten wood._
> 
> _28 Arrows do not make him flee, sling stones are like chaff to him._
> 
> _29 A club seems to him but a piece of straw, he laughs at the rattling of the lance._
> 
> _30 His undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing-sledge._
> 
> _31 He makes the depths churn like a boiling cauldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment._
> 
> _32 Behind him he leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair._
> 
> _33 Nothing on earth is his equal— a creature without fear._
> 
> _34 He looks down on all that are haughty; he is king over all that are proud._

  
Bobby closed the book. “That’s all it says.”  
  
“So, it’s unkillable,” Kurt said, voice flat.  
  
“That,” Dean pointed at Kurt. “Is a defeatist attitude. Something has to be able to kill it.”  
  
Kurt flung a hand toward the scripture. “That just said nothing on Earth--” Kurt stopped. He looked at Sam, who was looking back in dawning comprehension. Dean frowned. When had Kurt and Sam become knowledge buddies?  
  
“Nothing on Earth,” Sam said. “But that doesn’t exclude unearthly means.”  
  
Kurt frowned. “Do we have access to non-Earth weapons?”  
  
“One of us does,” Dean said, and looked to Gabriel. Gabriel looked back, his face as blank as any newly-vesseled angel. Dean thought, in the right light, you might be able to mistake that expression for serene, but there was nothing serene about Gabriel’s eyes. Dean had to ask anyway, “Are there any angel weapons you think might work?”  
  
Gabriel blinked, and the look was gone, replaced by the easy elasticity that characterized Gabriel as the Trickster. “None that I can think of, except maybe my Horn, but,” Gabriel sighed. “That’s supposed to bring about the end days, and--well--been there, done that.”  
  
“What’s she doing here?” Bobby muttered, and Dean looked over to see Bobby staring out the window. Dean turned to look as well and saw Sheriff Mills park her cruiser in front of Bobby’s and make a dash for his door. A moment later Mills had banged into the house, calling for Bobby.  
  
“Bobby, where are you? I got to--” She stopped when she saw the gathering.  
  
“What is it?” Bobby asked.   
  
Mills looked around, smiling at Puck, before sobering. “I was just formally requested to keep the Sioux Falls Sheriff Department away from any and all Roman Industries projects,” she said.  
  
Bobby frowned. “That’s not good.”  
  
“No, and?” Mills said. “The suit doing the asking? Was one of _them._ ” She paused. “And I’m pretty sure he knew I knew.”  
  
“Shitballs,” Bobby said. At the same time Puck said:  
  
“Wait, _you_ know?”  
  
Mills glared at Bobby. “You didn’t tell him?”  
  
“I didn’t?” Bobby glared right back. “You didn’t!”  
  
“That’s not important,” Sam said. “They know we’re here.”  
  
“They’ve known we’re here,” Bobby said, suddenly looking and sounding very tired. “They’ve known since the beginning. They just don’t rank us as a very high threat.”  
  
“I think I’m insulted,” Dean said.  
  
Bobby glared. “Better insulted than dead,” he said.  
  
“That plant means they’re moving to the next level. Them building here is a warning.” Mills said.  
  
“More than a warning,” Bobby said. “They’re coming for us; they told us when the news was leaked. They want us to dangle on a hook.”  
  
Cas looked up. “We have one week to find a way to kill something with no earthly means of being killed.”  
  
Bobby sighed. “Best get busy.”  
  
***  
  
Puck was now staying full-time at Bobby’s (and _that_ was a conversation he never needed to have again. Ever.), splitting his time between training with Dean and Sam, and researching with Bobby and Castiel. His nights were spent with Kurt, curled around and tangled up with each other in the little bed in Bobby’s guest room, or, more often, hiding away in the van with Kurt trading lazy summer kisses.  
  
Sheriff Mills had joined their fight, doing what she could in town to keep track of the Big Mouths. She would send word each time she encountered a new one; by Wednesday, four days in, the count was over fifty. Roman was due to break ground on Monday; who knew how many would be lurking by then.  
  
Puck was in the kitchen with Dean, cleaning and oiling the guns (okay, so Puck was making buckshot rounds with powdered boric acid and rock salt while Dean cleaned the guns, but he would still walk away smelling of gun oil, so, you know, close enough), half-listening to Bobby talk to Mills on the phone, when he saw Kurt freeze in the doorway, face white, and run off.  
  
“The hell?” Bobby said as the front door slammed. Puck was already on his feet.  
  
“I got it,” Puck said, and went after Kurt; he knew where he would be.  
  
Sure enough, when Puck opened the back door of their van, Kurt was inside, curled in on himself, face red with tears, and shaking. Kurt flinched away from the light and Puck closed the door quickly behind him.  
  
“Fuck,” Puck whispered, and wrapped his arm around Kurt; the other teen clung, but didn’t cry. “Babe...” Puck said against Kurt’s hair. “What happened?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Kurt said. His voice cracked. “I was fine, I wasn’t even upset, and then Bobby was talking about them and I--I ran. I couldn’t breathe and I ran _so far_ and I ended up here, and I’ve been here, and Puck--Noah, I’m scared.” Kurt squeezed his eyes shut, burying his head in Puck’s chest.  
  
“It’s okay,” Puck said quietly into Kurt’s hair; he had been expecting something like this, had known Kurt wasn’t as fine as he had insisted he was. But there was nothing he could have done, nothing until now. Kurt shook his head.  
  
“No, it’s not--it’s _not_ okay. How can it be--What kind of Hunter am I if I--I can’t even--” Kurt broke off, and Puck ran his hand up and down Kurt’s back, soothing. He thought about the other day, when he saw Bobby sitting at his desk, tears in his eyes, staring at a mostly empty bottle of Jack. Or when he had heard Gabriel comforting Castiel. Or the way Sam had taken the gun from Puck during target practice after he had missed three times in a row, so tired from lack of sleep that he couldn’t focus, and he couldn’t sleep because to sleep was to dream.  
  
What Puck said was: “I found Dean crying the other day.”  
  
Kurt blinked, and pulled back to look Puck in the face. “What?”  
  
Puck shrugged with one arm. “I went to get--something, I don’t remember what--out of Bobby’s garage, and Dean was there, sitting on a stack of tires, staring into space just _wrecked,_ you know. I mean--Dean’s an original badass.”  
  
“So what,” Kurt snapped. “I’m not as badass as Dean, so it’s _okay?_ ”  
  
“No, that’s,” Puck sighed. This would be so much easier if he could use someone else’s words. “Shit. I’m saying Dean’s done this before, and he’s scared. We’re all scared.”  
  
Kurt slumped in Puck’s arms, and Puck pulled him in a bit tighter. “I know that,” Kurt muttered. “I do. I just...” he trailed off... “I can’t believe I freaked out like that.”  
  
“Hey,” Puck said, and touched his fingers to Kurt’s chin, tilting his head up. “You’re my boy. I got your back.”  
  
Kurt smiled; it looked watery and loose, but real. Thank God. “How do you do that?” Kurt asked gently.  
  
“Do what?” Puck asked, just as gentle.  
  
“Make me feel better.”  
  
Puck grinned. “I got mad skills.”  
  
Kurt laughed, curling up into Puck again. “I like your ‘skills,’” Kurt muttered into Puck’s chest, and Puck grinned at the flirtatious tone that had crept into Kurt’s voice. It looked like the crisis had passed. He pulled back to make Kurt look at him.  
  
“Oh yeah?” Puck teased, and leaned in.  
  
“Yeah,” Kurt said against Puck’s mouth, and damn if his boy didn’t always have to have the last word. Well, Puck knew where his strengths lay.  
  
Kurt was grinning and Puck pressed in to deepen the kiss, licking his way past Kurt’s lips to chase his tongue and suck--Kurt groaned into Puck’s mouth and pressed closer.  
  
Puck broke the kiss, ducking his head to mouth along Kurt’s jaw, sucking a spot just below his ear. He heard his heart rushing in his ears as he licked along Kurt’s neck, and realized that breathy sound was Kurt whispering in his ear:  
  
“God, yes--so good--Puck-- _Noah_ \--yes, please-- _please!_ ”  
  
It sent a jolt down Puck’s spine, and skin--he needed skin--he had tried, tried so hard to be good, to not rush this but Fuck Kurt was here, hot and willing in his arms and how could Puck say no anymore, and--naked, they needed to be--  
  
Kurt’s hands fumbled at Puck’s belt and Puck wondered wildly if Kurt could read minds, because he was just--  
  
Kurt was still talking, babbling, “Please, _please,_ I want-- _I want--!_ ”  
  
“You sure?” Puck asked, because he wasn’t _that_ guy, not anymore, and he had to be sure and--. “Here? Now?”  
  
“Yes!” Kurt cried. “We’re _Hunters,_ Puck. We’re living on borrowed time, and we’ve waited long enough. Now, please, _take your pants off!_ ”  
  
Puck laughed--it bubbled out of him even as he leaned back to strip off his shirt, letting Kurt open his pants. Kurt’s hand were shaking, arousal or nerves Puck wasn’t sure, but when he hesitated, Kurt grabbed his pants and yanked, and Puck found himself grinning as he wiggled out of his pants, stripping the rest of the way, unashamedly naked. His grin turned smug and he flexed, loving the way Kurt flushed and couldn’t look away.  
  
“See anything you like,” Puck pouted his lips, and Kurt snorted, but his hands were pulling off his shirt, stripping off his jeans, and--Puck licked his lips. “Well, damn,” Puck said. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, there’s no way I’d believe you fit that in those tight-ass jeans of yours.”  
  
Kurt flushed, and Puck loved the way it spread down his chest; he reached out a hand to trace its path, and Kurt _pounced,_ surging forward, hands grasping Puck’s face to pull him in for a kiss, as their bodies met. Kurt gasped at that first press of bare skin, and Puck braces his hands on Kurt’s waist, pulling him in, moving them together, cocks aligned and it felt so good, friction eased to just this side of rough with sweat and precome. Puck felt lightheaded; it had never felt like this before, so good, feeling sparking and swelling, and his heart felt full, and they weren’t even kissing anymore, just gasping against each other’s mouths, and it was hot--so hot--and, fuck, too soon-- _too soon--_  
  
Puck pulled away with a gasp, “Fuck.”  
  
“What?” Kurt asked, voice higher and rough at the edge. “Why’d you stop?”  
  
“More,” Puck said. “I want more.”  
  
“Then--” Kurt’s eyes widened. “Oh. You--” he licked his lips. “What kind of more?”  
  
“I don’t,” Puck shook his head. “No lube.” Well, they had the sunblock, but no way was their first time going to smell like artificial coconut; too many memories.  
  
Kurt swallowed. “We’ll get some,” he said. “For next time. And--condoms.”  
  
Condoms. Fuck. “I’m clean,” he said. “I’ve been getting tested.”  
  
“Good,” Kurt said. “Me, too, I mean. But, for that--”  
  
“Yeah,” Puck said. “I know, I just... You should know.”  
  
“Yes,” Kurt nodded, and fuck Kurt must be as sex-addled as he was, because he’d never seen him so distracted. Kurt leaned in, ran his tongue over Puck’s scar, where his nipple ring _used_ to be, and that shouldn’t be hot, but Puck was starting to get the idea that _everything_ they did would be hot, and--  
  
“Uh. I have an idea.” Kurt said, and he was pushing Puck, making him lay down on his side, and _fuck_ if Puck wasn’t _loving_ this side of Kurt; what would be bossy and controlling became aggressive and, fuck, _dominant,_ and it had to be natural, because Kurt had said he’s never done this before, and Puck was just the fucking luckiest bro on the planet, and--  
  
Kurt lay in front of him, or rather; his cock was in front of Puck’s face which meant Kurt’s head was--  
  
“Oh, Fuck!” Puck cried out as Kurt wrapped a spit-slick hand around Puck’s cock, and stroked it once, twice, before leaning forward and licking across the head with his hot, wet tongue. He watched, wide eyed and panting, as Kurt slowly licked his way around the head, red lips stretched wide, glistening when he finally wrapped them around Puck’s cock and sucked. Puck’s eyes closed and his head fell back with a groan. “Fuck me,” Puck moaned.  
  
Kurt pulled off with an obscene little pop, and said, “We said next time,” He smirked, and rolled his hips forward, catching Puck’s attention. Puck wrapped a hand around Kurt’s cock, and Kurt rewarded him by sucking Puck’s cock back into his mouth. Puck stroked, but it was too dry, he couldn’t--he pulled his hand away, licked his hand to get it as wet as possible, and wrapped it back around Kurt. Kurt groaned, and Puck shuddered at the sensation.  
  
Puck licked his lips as he watched his hand work Kurt’s cock, and not giving himself any time to really think about it, leaned forward and mirrored Kurt’s earlier actions. Kurt twitched under him, obviously making an effort to keep still, and Puck appreciated it. The last time Puck had done anything like this, the cock was blue silicone and attached to Mrs. Thompson. But Puck remembered, and he dropped his jaw, and tried to remember his teeth, and went down as far as he could. Kurt cried out around Puck’s cock, the sound muffled, and Puck groaned at the sound; Kurt snapped his hips forward and Puck _rolled_ with it, licking with his tongue because fuck this was so much better than cool silicone, hot and hard and alive; He tried to get a rhythm, because he knew how good that could be, but Kurt’s thrusts were irregular, the taste of precome heavy in Puck’s mouth and it was good, so good; he was drooling, his face wet, but it didn’t matter, because he could--  
  
“Oh, oh!” Kurt cried, pulling off Puck’s cock, and he tried to pull back but Puck followed, and tried to swallow as much as he could because he _knew_ and he wanted Kurt to--wanted to give that to Kurt, wanted to show him how much he--  
  
Kurt’s mouth was back, hot and eager, sucking hard as his hand worked, twisting around the base, and _shit_ his other hand cupped Puck’s balls, one finger reaching behind and _pressing--_  
  
Puck’s orgasm took him by surprise and he shouted, sparks flashing behind his eyes and _fuck, Fuck!_  
  
He slumped back, and Kurt pulled back, coughing, one hand pressed to his mouth.  
  
“Fuck,” Puck gasped. “Sorry, I--”  
  
Kurt waved him off, color high on his cheeks. “S’ok,” he said, his voice deeper than Puck expected and raspy and fuck that was hot.  
  
Puck reached out, and pulled Kurt in for a kiss, the taste of them mingling on their tongues. He pressed their foreheads together. “You didn’t have to.”  
  
Kurt smiled. “I know,” he said. He shrugged. “You did, and I--I kinda wanted to.”  
  
“‘s hot,” Puck said. Kurt giggled, and pressed in closer, chest to chest, tangling their legs together. He pressed his face to Puck’s neck, and Puck pressed a kiss to Kurt’s hair.  
  
“That. Was awesome,” Kurt said. Puck laughed.  
  
“Bad. Ass.”  
  
“We should do that again.” Kurt said, and Puck grinned.  
  
“I like the way you think.” Kurt grinned up at him and Puck leaned in for another kiss, when there was a sudden banning on the back door. They froze. Kurt cleared his throat.  
  
“Uh. Hello?”  
  
“You two lovebirds might wanna put your pants on,” Dean called through the door, his voice sounding odd until Puck realized why; there was no trace of humor. “They’re early.”  
  
***  
  
Kurt followed Puck out of the van, smoothing down his shirt. Sam and Dean stood by the door, faces grim. Kurt swallowed, the fear from before threatening to choke him, but he pushed it down. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced off against a larger threat--he didn’t back down then, he wouldn’t back down now.  
  
He looked around the yard; it was empty.  
  
“Where--?” Kurt asked.  
  
“Just outside the gates,” Sam said, leading them back towards the house. “They have the place surrounded.”  
  
“How many?” Puck asked.  
  
After a long moment, Dean said, “A lot.”  
  
“Bobby said it was over a hundred,” Kurt said, remembering the defeated sound of Bobby’s voice. “It’s why I ran,” he swallowed. “We barely got away from one, and now we have to face over a hundred.”  
  
“We don’t have to kill them all,” Sam said. “Just hold them off until we can kill Dick. Cut off the head, the snake dies. We kill Roman, we kill Leviathan.” He paused. “In theory.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Kurt muttered as they approached the house. The others were gathered on the porch, arming themselves. Louder, he said. “Why are they waiting? It’s not like the wards will do anything to them.”  
  
“Dick’s playing head games,” Dean growled as he cocked his shotgun.  
  
“It’s a classic technique,” Sam said. “Let your enemy see your strength, so they will be disheartened.” Kurt nodded along; it was a tactic he had used himself with some of his more daring ensembles. Of course, that tactic only worked when the other party recognized your strength. And there was a world of difference between High School fashion and fighting Leviathan.  
  
“Okay, _Sam Tzu,_ ” Dean snorted. “What about if you’re the smaller party?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “Know thy enemy...?”  
  
“We do not know Leviathan,” Castiel said. “Or we would know more about how to defeat it.”  
  
“True,” Dean said. “But it doesn’t know us, either.” He grinned. “These great super-spooks--Yellow-Eyes, Mike and Lucy, the Mother--they always underestimate us.  
  
“It knows you well enough to send over a hundred after you. It may not seem like a lot, until you remember that one of them is worth several humans,” Crowley said from behind Kurt. Kurt jumped, and glared at the King of Hell. Crowley wiggled his fingers at Kurt, and blew him a kiss. “You’re finally recognized as a threat,” he raised a glass in a toast. “Mazel tov.”  
  
“You saying it’s scared of us?” Sam asked, incredulous.  
  
“Should be” Dean muttered. “We’re gonna kick its ass.”  
  
“No,” Bobby said, coming out of the house. He handed Puck and Kurt each a shotgun, and a small pouch of shells. “It’s not afraid; it’s just smart enough to exert a little effort.” Bobby looked at Crowley and scowled. “Your reinforcements?”  
  
“Already in place,” Crowley said. “I’ve got my demons guarding the perimeter.” There was a deep growl from the empty space next to Crowley and Kurt saw Sam and Dean both flinch away. Kurt stepped back as Crowley placed his hand on the air--at his _shoulder?_ “And of course, my babies are dying for a little action.”  
  
“Speaking of action,” Puck said. “Where’s Gabriel?”  
  
“Here,” Gabriel said. Kurt turned; Gabriel was sitting on the roof of the porch, feet dangling off the edge. Kurt wondered how long he had been sitting there, if he had just gotten there or had been there all along, hidden from sight.  
  
“You ready?” Sam called up.  
  
“I don’t have much of a choice, now do I?” Gabriel grumbled. “I _hate_ this kind of fighting. I prefer a more personal approach.”  
  
“You mean you like to trick and run away,” Dean said.  
  
“Of course,” Gabriel grinned. “Much more fun. I--” Gabriel paused, sitting up straight. “I have to go.”  
  
“What?” Sam said.  
  
“I’m being called.” Gabriel’s voice was odd; strained and distant, and without a sound, he disappeared.  
  
“Well that’s just great,” Crowley said. “He’s always had shit timing.”  
  
“What are we going to do?” Kurt said. Gabriel was their trump card. Without him--they had nothing.  
  
“You could try prayer, if you really want,” Crowley snarked.  
  
“We hope they don’t attack until Gabriel gets back,” Sam said, trying to interject some calm. “And if they do, that we can hold them off.”  
  
There was a scream, a barely human howl, and the sound of crunching bones. It came from the far west corner of the property, and everyone spun towards the sound.  
  
“Fuck me,” Puck muttered as the sound spread down the line like dominoes. Faster than Kurt thought possible, the sound had surrounded the property. He adjusted the grip on his gun, muscle memory checking over the weapon.  
  
“Here,” Puck said, and handed Kurt a machete in a sheath. Kurt strapped it to his back, checking that it was low enough to pull free with ease. Puck grabbed another from the pile on the stairs, and slung it over his shoulder. Puck looked up, eyes meeting Kurt’s.  
  
This was a moment, Kurt knew, that was ripe for drama; a stirring speech, a poignant admission, a witty one-liner, a music swell culminating in a kiss--but those screams weren't music, and there were no words left to say.  
  
“So here’s the plan,” Bobby said. “Don’t die.”  
  
“Good plan,” Puck said.  
  
“They’ve got numbers, but we’ve got the home field advantage,” Bobby said. “We’re gonna try to keep them outside the fence for as long as possible, but once they break through, stay out of the open. And remember, shooting them will slow them down, cutting their heads off will stop them, but it’s only temporary. The farther away the head goes, the longer it’ll be down.”  
  
The screaming stopped.  
  
Kurt froze. There was absolute silence; no voices, no animals, not even wind. The hellhound next to Crowley growled like the rumble of a speeding train when one’s stuck on the tracks. Puck pressed close against Kurt’s side, and Kurt reached grabbed Puck’s hand tight in his own.  
  
The hellhound quieted. Kurt had the sudden hope that maybe, just maybe, the demons were enough. His heart beat wildly; he was very aware of the sweat on his face, down the back of his neck, pooling at the base of his spine. It seemed such a small thing to notice, but there it was, getting ever more present, but Kurt couldn’t move to wipe his face, to rub his neck, to press a hand to the small of his back. Kurt couldn’t move--he couldn’t--  
  
Wrenching metal screamed through the silence, and with a sound like the end of the world, Leviathan rammed the gates.  
  
***  
  
“Go!” Bobby cried, and Kurt grabbed Puck’s wrist and ran pulling him left into the maze of cars. Puck kept up easily, keeping pace with Kurt. They heard the hellhound behind them roar, and charge, but didn’t dare stop to look behind them.  
  
They couldn’t go to their van; the wards were crap against Leviathan, and they’d be sitting ducks. Kurt pulled them to a stop behind an old earthmover. “Shit,” Kurt panted quietly. “This is like the most fucked up game of hide and seek ever.”  
  
Puck snorted. “Olly-olly oxen free.”  
  
Kurt spared a moment to smile fondly at Puck. “The random things you know,” he said.  
  
Puck grinned back. “You love it.”  
  
Kurt grabbed Puck by the back of his neck, and kissed him once, quickly and fiercely. “For luck,” Kurt whispered against Puck’s mouth.  
  
“Aw, young love,” said a voice behind him. Kurt spun away from Puck, raising his gun as Puck did the same. The big mouth watching them was balding, overweight and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off. “How sweet. I bet you still taste of innocence.” His mouth opened wide, wider than should be possible, showing rows and rows of sharp teeth in inky black. Kurt fired, straight into his face, and the big mouth reared back. Kurt shot it again, and Puck darted forward, machete out and with one solid swipe, took the monster’s head clean from its shoulders.  
  
The head dropped, and rolled towards Kurt. Kurt looked down at the head, up at Puck who looked between the blade in his hands, the head on the ground and Kurt; he shrugged. Kurt stepped back, hearing the beat in his head, and kicked sending the head clear over the house and out of the yard.  
  
“Touchdown,” Puck muttered. He grinned at Kurt. Kurt bowed his head, but their fun was cut short by another of those inhuman cries.  
  
“Come on,” Kurt said. “We have to keep moving.”  
  
***  
  
When Leviathan battered down his door, Bobby watched as Kurt pulled Puck left, Dean and Sam ran left, and the hellhound, unseen for a trail of thrown-up dust, took off towards the horde. And it was a horde.  
  
“Holy shitballs,” Bobby said, eyes wide as he and Castiel watched the bodies poured into the salvage yard. The first wave was caught by the hellhound, and Bobby heard Crowley;  
  
“Tear ‘em to pieces.”  
  
But the big mouths rallied, and turned, biting at what looked like empty air, and it wasn’t until Crowley started swearing that Bobby realized they were eating the hellhound. More kept coming in behind them, crawling over those feeding and spreading out into the yard.  
  
 _“Fuckballs!”_ Bobby swore, and ran into the house. “Come on,” he called back, and he heard a single set of footsteps follow him. When he looked back, he only saw Castiel. _Figures he’d disappear,_ Bobby thought, then there was no time to think as he grabbed a super soaker with borax and holy water he kept by the back door, tossed another to Castiel, and they were out the back door and into a ring of big mouths.  
  
There were eight of them, each different and none of them looked particularly threatening. There was a teenaged girl with a Team Edward shirt, a nurse, an older man with a beer gut, two cable repair man, an elementary school teacher, and a little old lady with a white handbag.  
  
Bobby stopped short, feeling more than seeing Castiel behind him, and didn’t waste a second, simply lifted the pistol and fired. The big mouths looked bemused until the water hit them and their skin blackened and burned.  
  
And that pissed them off.  
  
They rushed and Bobby fired, and Castiel fired behind him, slipping up to stand back to back, but there were too many and they were too close, and Bobby used his gun like a club to get the teen to back off, and reached for his machete, but Granny was there and she bit his arm. Bobby cried out, and Castiel was there and he cut off Granny’s head, and spun into the repair men. If Bobby ever had a hard time remembering that Castiel was a soldier, _this_ would have solved it.  
  
Castiel moved like he was still invulnerable, with a dancing grace and singularity of purpose that managed to tear through three more big mouths before he was knocked off his feet by the elementary school teacher, and landed on the ground next to Bobby. Granny was reattaching her head, and the nurse was holding the one repairman’s head out to him, and the others were watching Bobby and Castiel and closing in.  
  
“Hey,” Bobby heard. “Sick ‘em, boys.” There was a ripping crunching sound, the howling of hell loud in their ears, and the leviathans closest to them went down under invisible weight, their heads gone, bitten clean off.  
  
“Don’t just stand there,” Crowley said. “Run.”  
  
Castiel grabbed Bobby by the arm, and pulled him up. Bobby staggered to his feet, letting Castiel help him balance, and ran with the intent to put some serious distance between him and those creatures.  
  
“One more you owe me,” Crowley said in Bobby’s ear as they ran.   
  
“Shuddup,” Bobby said. “And I might thank you later.”  
  
***  
  
Sam followed Dean around the cars, heading towards the front gate, flanking the hellhounds. It was, quite probably, the stupidest plan Sam had ever followed, and that was including the chupacabra disaster of ‘98.  
  
But what else was there to do. Leviathan had to be stopped, and if they didn’t do it, well--  
  
Just ahead of them, the hellhound reached the gates and--  
  
“Puppy chow from hell,” Dean muttered.  
  
Sam looked at Dean, incredulous. _“Dude.”_  
  
Dean looked at Sam and shrugged. _"What?"_  
  
Sam shook his head. They both spun on high alert, when the Leviathan cried out--they were closing in.  
  
“Shit,” Dean said, and that was all Sam needed, and they were running, firing their guns behind them, not looking to see if their buckshot had any effect, but knowing that getting shot would slow most things down, just a little, and doubled back the way they came. They burst free of the cars and stopped in the driveway.  
  
Leviathan. All of them; there were easily sixty crowded into the space, and more still came through the hole in the fence.  
  
“Fuck.” Sam said, and exchanged a look with Dean. Dean squared his jaw, Sam did the same. They faced Leviathan, weapons raised. Dean opened his mouth, and Sam could already hear the taunts, was ready with his own, when;  
  
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Butch and Sundance.”  
  
Sam’s blood ran cold. No, no, it was too soon. Gabriel wasn’t back yet, they had just started to fight, it couldn’t be-- _Gabriel, you fucktard, you better get your holy ass back here, a.s.a.p.! I can’t do it without you._  
  
Dick Roman stepped through the big mouths like Moses through the sea. He smiled at them. “Sam and Dean. Won’t you join us for dinner?”  
  
***  
  
Dean tightened his grip on his machete. “No thanks, _Dick,_ ” he said. “Never did like food that bites back.”  
  
Dick laughed like Dean was some kind of talking parrot--the kind that swears and whistles--and boy was Dean really freakin’ tired of that smug attitude, of every super-bad they faced looking _down_ on them. It was one thing to look at him with vengeance--that made them kinda-equals-- or as food--monsters that hunted humans for food were generally animals; it’s hard to take offence when you’re part of the food chain. But that better-than-you smirk--demons had it, angels had it, and _Dick_ here had it in spades; not just “we’re going to eat you,” but “we’re going to eat you and do it with our hoity toity manners, pinkies out.”  
  
Just wasn’t right.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw Bobby, Cas, and Crowley round the corner of the house, and stop when they saw the crowd. Cas stepped forward, fierce with righteous anger, ready to take them all on, but Bobby stopped him with a hand on his arm. Cas shook Bobby off, but Bobby hissed something at him, and Cas stayed where he was, staring at Dean with those wide-fucking-eyes. _Damnit,_ Dean thought. _Goddamnit!_  
  
He wanted to look over at Cas, wanted him here, by his side, wanted to tell him everything would be okay and _mean_ it, wanted-- _fuck_ \--wanted this not to be the end.  
  
But he couldn’t look. If he looked, he’d draw Dick’s attention, so he was stuck, wound tighter than a bowstring.  
  
“What’s the matter, Dean?” Dick said, stepping forward. “Where’s that famous Dean Winchester sarcasm?”  
  
Sam shifted next to him, and his eyes flickered over to what had drawn Sam’s attention; Puck and Kurt were just in sight behind a car on the other side of the horde from the house, watching. Kurt had his shotgun in hand, balanced so just the end was braced on the door of the car. Puck was behind him, black-stained machete in hand and looking ready to do some damage.  
  
Dean stood a little taller. They were going down, they were far too outnumbered, but they were sure as hell going down fighting.  
  
“I have to say, I am disappointed,” Dick said. “I was so looking forward to a little dinner entertainment.”  
  
“Hey Dick,” Dean said. “Eat me.”  
  
The smug grin fell from Dick’s face. “Gladly,” Dick growled, and roared, racing forward. Dean just had time to fire once before he was down, straining to keep Dick off of him as Dick snapped and bit.  
  
“Sam!” Dean bit out, and then Sam and then Sam was there, swinging his machete like a golf club, and Dick’s head was gone and Dean was covered in black ichor, and pushing the body off. Sam grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him up and they were running; Dick wouldn’t stay down for long. They raced for Kurt and Puck, who had left their car, and were fighting their way towards the house. It was too close for guns now, and Dean swung his like a bat, knocking big mouths left and right. Kurt and Puck worked seamlessly, slicing and dicing, but they couldn’t move forward. Sam swept through the big mouths in their way, and Dean had never been happier that his little brother had grown into a giant-killer. Dean followed, playing clean up.   
  
“Move!” Dean yelled to Kurt, and Kurt nodded, the two junior Hunters freed to help, and the four of them spun through the horde until the big mouths started to fall away, taken down by Crowley’s hellhounds.  
  
Bobby was on the porch, alter spread out before him, flipping through the book looking for the right spell.  
  
“It’s too early,” Sam said. “Gabriel’s not--”  
  
“We can’t wait,” Bobby said. “We’ll be dead either way, and at least if it’s manifest Gabriel has a shot at it afterwards.  
  
“Do it,” Dean said, and took up position between Cas and Kurt. He looked at his lover, and Cas looked back, and everything that needed to be said, everything that Dean hadn’t known needed to be said, was right there in Cas’s eyes.  
  
“Cas, I--”  
  
“Me too,” Cas said. Dean nodded.  
  
“If we live through this.” Dean said. “We’re not getting out of bed for a week.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
Dean looked over at the others. Kurt and Puck still stood close, but alert. Sam was next to Puck, rolling his shoulders and swinging his machete. Crowley was on the stairs, drink gone, and no weapon in his hand but snarling. Bobby had a handkerchief tied around his arm, and his hat was missing, but he had found the spell and was mixing ingredients. Dean looked back to the horde just as the last hellhound fell. He heard Crowley slump behind them, then there was no time, because they were on him.  
  
Dean cut and hacked, slashing this and that, kicking heads away when they fell to his feet. One managed to bite his ankle, and Cas was there knocking it free. Behind them, Bobby’s voice raised in a chant, there was a flash of power, and--nothing.  
  
“No,” Dean heard Bobby say. “No!”  
  
Dean’s heart sank. It didn’t work. It didn’t--  
  
The next big mouth came at him, and Dean raised his machete, but it was too late; it was caught in the big mouth’s hand and Dean kicked, but there another had his legs. Another grabbed his other arm and the three pulled Dean off his feet, and held him on his knees. Dean heard Cas shouting and fall, heard Sam cry out and double his attacks, but Dick was in his face, smiling around too many teeth. “Hello, Dean.”  
  
Dean sneered. “Didn’t your momma ever teach you not to play with your food?”  
  
Dicks’ smile faltered and he reared back, mouth impossibly wide, and Dean closed his eyes because this was it, and--  
  
“Hold it, Dickie-poo,” Dean heard, and cracked his eyes open. Dick stopped, everyone stopped, and Dick turned, his face falling back into his mask. Gabriel stood just behind Dick. He was taller than Dean remembered, and when Dean looked, he saw that Gabriel was standing on the bodies of two headless big-mouths, his angel sword in his hand, shining from beneath the icor. It should have been funny. It really wasn’t.  
  
Dick let go and Dean dropped to the ground, crawling away to Cas. He put his hand on Cas’s shoulder, his neck, and felt a pulse. Dean felt dizzy with relief; they weren’t dead yet. Cas groaned, and Dean helped him roll over, keeping an eye on Gabriel and Dick.  
  
Dick looked down at the sword in Gabriel’s hand. “You really don’t think that’s going to kill me?”  
  
“This?” Gabriel held up the sword, and tossed it away. “Nah. But I’m not here to fight you.” Something--shifted. Dean didn’t know what it was, couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but suddenly it was as if Gabriel was the only real thing, like everything else was shadows and dust. “I have a message for you.”  
  
Gabriel raised a hand, pointing his finger at Dick. Dick stepped back, tripping over himself in his haste. “No,” he said. “No!” Dean looked away.  
  
When Gabriel spoke it was the Will and Might of God. _“You are Unmade.”_  
  
There wasn’t even a scream.  
  
When Dean looked up, the yard was empty of Leviathan, no bodies, no horde--just a broken fence, five beat up Hunters, The King of Hell, and the Word of God, who casually plucked a Snickers from the air, and took a bite with obvious relish.  
  
***  
  
Death frowned at the not-chess board, and then pursed his lips at Formerly Chuck.  
  
“Drama Queen,” Death said.  
  
Formerly Chuck just grinned, ineffably.  
  
***  
  
Bobby sat back against the wall of his house, looking out over the yard. The place was a disaster; the front gate was as good as gone, the ground torn to pieces, and there were more cars reduced to scrap than not. Still, somehow, everyone had survived.  
  
It was almost enough to have Bobby believe in miracles.  
  
Bobby looked over the others. Puck and Kurt were standing just in front of him, checking each other over for wounds, efficiently if a bit more intimately than Bobby was used to seeing. Bobby was proud to say they did well today, but was also glad they’d be heading back to school in a few weeks; they were still both so young. They deserved the time to be kids.  
  
Dean and Castiel were-- “Good Lord,” Bobby said covering his eyes. “I didn’t need to see that.” Bobby was happy for the idjits, fuck knows they’d been through enough--literally hell and back--but Bobby could die happy never seeing _that._ Especially not on his front lawn.  
  
“Get a goddamned room!” Bobby called to them. Dean barely registered Bobby’s shout enough to wave a hand at him, and Bobby was pretty sure Castiel just doubled his enthusiasm. Bobby narrowed his eyes; looked like Castiel was picking up some of Dean’s bad habits as well. Bobby groaned. Lord, there was gonna two of ‘em now. _Balls._    
  
And Sam--last time Bobby had gotten a good look at Sam, he had been covered in black big-mouth gunk, but when the Leviathan was _unmade,_ it disappeared completely, leaving Sam clean of gunk, but wild-eyed. Sam was staring at Gabriel, who was staring back wearing that damned angel-blank mask of a face and Bobby was too old for this shit.  
  
Sam took a step forward, and Gabriel snapped his fingers; the two disappeared. Maybe they’d be able to get their shit sorted without Bobby having to see it. _Somebody_ \--and Bobby was ignoring the fact that is sounded a lot like Dean--chose that moment to moan loudly. Bobby squeezed his eyes shut, as he heard Kurt giggle.  
  
Somebody sat next to him on the porch, and Bobby cracked an eye to see Crowley offering him a tumbler of whiskey. Bobby looked at it. It was probably a trap of some kind. Crowley was a demon, after all, and the King of Hell to boot.  
  
“It’s not a trick,” Crowley said. “It’s a drink. Fucking take it.”  
  
On the other hand, they _had_ just killed the freaking Leviathan. He took the glass, raised it in a toast, and knocked it back. He lowered the glass too see Crowley _leering_ at him.  
  
 _“Balls.”_  
  
***  
  
Sam didn’t quite know what to think. One minute he’s fighting Leviathan, pray for and cursing Gabriel as hard as he can because he’s _just not there,_ then he’s back and Leviathan is unmade and he’s just standing there, staring. So Sam steps forward and Gabriel snaps and they’re sitting on a bench on a boardwalk facing the ocean. To Sam’s left begins the attractions, rides and games, and the smell of funnel cake wars with the briny salt of the water. Gabriel is holding a pink stick of cotton candy, and Sam has to watch as he pulls it apart piece by piece, licking the colored sugar from his fingers.  
  
It shouldn’t be hot. It is.  
  
Sam shifts in his seat, so many thoughts in his head and he doesn’t know what to say first. Gabriel doesn’t seem inclined to help, but after a moment he starts to fidget, and finally bursts out:  
  
“I heard you, you know. Praying for me.”  
  
Sam ducks his head. “I know.”  
  
Gabriel swallowed. “Did you mean it?”  
  
Sam didn’t ask what he meant; _I can’t do it without you._ Sam swallowed. He was really only just learning how much he meant it, but he did--Fuck, did he ever.  
  
So all he said was, “Yes.” He reached over and pulled a piece of cotton candy off of Gabriel’s stick, popping it into his mouth. It was so sweet his teeth ached, but he let it dissolve on his tongue, and watched Gabriel through half-lidded eyes.  
  
“Sam,” Gabriel said, sighing. “We have fun. But this?” Gabriel shifted into his co-ed form. “This is just an illusion.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “So is your vessel, technically. I’m pretty sure you’re actually taller than me.”  
  
Gabriel snorted and shifted back. “She’s not real, Sam.”  
  
“She’s you,” Sam said. “You’re real.”  
  
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, smug look back in place, but Sam could see past it now. Gabriel was hurting. “You don’t love me.”  
  
Sam looked down, and took one of Gabriel’s hands in his own. “Yeah,” he said. “I really think I do.”  
  
Gabriel was staring at their hand with something like shock on his face. Sam wondered, idly, if Gabriel had taught himself emotion, or if it had come from being in a vessel for so long. But Gabriel wasn’t convinced. “Think?”  
  
Sam nudged Gabriel’s shoulder with his own. “You’re the all-powerful angel. Read my mind if you’re not sure.”  
  
Gabriel looked into Sam’s eyes, and Sam marveled at the color, so bright and _so familiar._ Gabriel never changed his eyes; Sam had fallen in love with those eyes. They widened.  
  
“You--,” Gabriel laughed, delighted, grin wide. Sam felt his heart swell, cupped Gabriel’s cheek, and kissed him. It wasn’t the best of kissed, the two of them grinning to wide, laughing just a little too hard, but it was _perfect._  
  
Sam pulled back. “I love you, not your vessel.”  
  
“I see that,” Gabriel said. He ran a hand through Sam’s hair. “It’s mutual, you know.”  
  
Sam grinned. “I know.” He stood, and pulled Gabriel to his feet. Gabriel raised an eyebrow when Sam took his hand, and started to walk him down the boardwalk towards the rides.  
  
“The way I see it,” Sam said as they walked. “We’ve been doing things backwards.”  
  
“You want a _date?_ ” Gabriel stopped, just short of incredulous, but there was the hint of a pleased smile around his mouth.  
  
“I want to go on the roller coaster. I want to kick some ass at those dart games. I want to play skeeball, and then gorge on pizza and fried Oreos,” Sam said. “And I want to do it with you, because nobody makes me happy the way you do.”  
  
Gabriel smiled softly and started walking again. “Throw in the haunted house and it’s a deal.”  
  
“Aw,” Sam groaned but he was grinning. “Those things are so lame.”  
  
“You obviously haven’t been in one with the right person.” Gabriel grinned at Sam. “Play your cards right, and I’ll blow you in the House of Mirrors.”  
  
Sam grinned. “Deal.”  
  
***  
  
Puck couldn’t believe Summer was almost over.  
  
After Sam and Gabe had disappeared, Bobby had sprayed Dean and Cas with the hose, and the ensuing mud-fight lasted until Aunt Jody had arrived, responding to a “noise complaint.” Jody had looked at them in bewildered horror as Puck, covered in mud, reenacted the fight for her, complete with his dinosaur sound effects, and the occasional assist from Kurt.  
  
Thankfully, Bobby had waited until he was done with his story before blasting him with the hose, saying there was no way he was tracking half the yard through his house.  
  
The rest of the night was spent celebrating, drinking beer and eating too much pizza, and after Jody left, finally escaping to Kurt’s room for some truly spectacular holy-shit-we-saved-the-word sex.  
  
The next day was less fun, hung-over and almost too sore to move. They stayed inside to rest and heal, venturing down to the kitchen for food, then into the study to gingerly tidy before they all collapsed in the general vicinity of the sofa to watch bad kung-fu movies and eat popcorn and ice cream, and anything else Gabriel snapped up.  
  
The next day they cleaned the yard. The less said about that day, the better.  
  
The following Tuesday, almost a week after they had defeated Leviathan, Puck and Kurt were in their van, windows and back door open for a breeze against the late August heat, when Kurt suddenly started and said, “oh.”  
  
“What is it?” Puck mumbled. They were spread out on the blankets; Puck was drowsy with the heat.  
  
“I’m supposed to be driving back to Lima in a few days.”  
  
That woke Puck up. “Shit.” He said. He can come out here with a one way ticket, planning on buying the return from the station, and had completely forgotten that he’d have to travel. Fuck, he hated buying tickets last minute; the seats sucked.  
  
“How’d you get out here?” Kurt asked.  
  
“Bus,” Puck said, already dreading the return trip in this heat with that stank-ass smell. Fuuuck. “I still have to buy a ticket.”  
  
“Oh,” Kurt said. “Well, in that case, you want a ride?”  
  
Puck opened his eyes. “What?”  
  
Kurt turned to face Puck. “Well, why spend the money on a ticket when I can drive us both back. I mean, we’re heading the same way. Just--chip in for gas food, and we’ll split the cost of the hotel room.”  
  
Puck blinked at his boyfriend. “Hotel room?”  
  
“What? It’s a long drive.” Kurt smirked. “And if I want to take advantage of our last day to real privacy before we’re back in Loser Lima...” Kurt trailed off, shrugging one shoulder with exaggerated delicacy.  
  
“I like that plan,” Puck said. “I am on board with that plan. It’s a great plan.”  
  
Kurt grinned and leaned in to kiss Puck. “I thought so.”  
  
The Winchesters left the next day the same way they came, blasting ACDC and on the trail of their next Hunt. It wasn’t a long goodbye, filled with, as Kurt said later, “manly posturing and machismo to hide the bitter sweet sting of goodbye.” Puck was pretty sure that meant that they had to leave before Dean started to cry. They had promised to let Puck or Kurt know if they would be near Lima in the next year, and Puck was looking forward to it.  
  
Dean drove, like always, but with Cas in the passenger seat. Sam was spread out in the back, and as they passed through the newly repaired gates, Puck was pretty sure he saw Gabriel wave back at them through the rear window.  
  
The last few days were filled with packing, making sure that they each had everything. Puck returned Jody’s bike, making sure he had everything from her place before she drove him back to Bobby’s. Jody stopped him as he made his way to the car, and pulled him in for a tight hug.  
  
“Stop by whenever you want,” Jody said. “And call me if you mom gets crazy.”  
  
Puck snorted. “Then I’ll never be off the phone.” He ducked his head. “But thanks.”  
  
When they arrived at the yard, Kurt was standing next to his car, the Nav already packed with their things. He was still dressed in simple jeans and a single white tee-shirt, but they were more form fitting than they had been, and there was a gold design on his left shoulder. But the new clothes only showed how much Kurt had changed, the new strength in his arms, the shape of his jaw. Puck was one lucky guy.  
  
Puck climbed out of the car, and went to greet his boyfriend, pushing him against the car. Kurt smirked at him and Puck had to kiss it away; after all, he had a rep to keep.  
  
“You boys got everything,” Bobby asked, rounding the car. “Oh, balls,” he said, and they broke apart.  
  
“We have everything,” Kurt said.  
  
“Good,” Bobby said, “Here.” He handed Puck a large envelope. In it were two cell phones, matching fake ids declaring them FBI, and a stack of business cards.  
  
“Bobby?” Puck asked.  
  
“You’re Hunters now,” He shrugged. “Use ‘em sparingly until you graduate. The cards have the number here, and the phones are programmed with here, Sam, Dean, and Cas.”  
  
“Thanks, Bobby.” Puck said.  
  
Bobby shrugged. “Thank me by graduating and not gettin’ dead.”  
  
“Deal,” Kurt said, and hugged Bobby. Bobby looked surprised, but hugged back.  
  
“Drive safe.” Bobby said.  
  
“Will do,” Kurt said, and backed away.  
  
Bobby looked at Puck. “You don’t have to hug me.”  
  
“‘s Cool.” Puck said, and hugged Bobby anyway. Bobby just sighed, and patted Puck’s back. They climbed into the Nav, and Kurt drove them down the drive, and on to Lima.  
  
Once on the highway, Kurt rested his hand on the center console, and Puck reached down to take it, twining their fingers together. Senior Year was gonna _rock._


	7. Epilogue: Carry On My Wayward Son

Castiel stretched, trying to work some of the kinks from his back. While he still retained some special talents--Cas didn’t think he would ever be fully human--he was, never the less, more human than not, including, unfortunately, a tendency towards a stiff back after an energetic night. Dean was still asleep next to him, and Cas paused for a moment to marvel at the way the sunlight that peeked through the curtain dances over dean’s hair, making it shine golden.    
  
He loved Dean for the beauty of his soul, but Cas couldn’t deny that Dean’s body didn’t hurt.   
  
Cas heard a key in the lock, and pulled the blanket up over himself and Dean just as Sam entered with three coffees and a box of something that smelled cakey and sweet. Doughnuts.   
  
Sam rolled his eyes when he saw them still in bed, but he sat at the table and pulled out his computer without complaint, looking away to give Cas privacy as he stood and dressed. Cas had thought about pointing out that it wasn’t necessary, that there was nothing shameful about the naked human form, but he knew Sam did it because he liked him, and had accepted Cas into the family. After all, after years of sharing a motel room, the brother’s bonds of personal modesty were more suggestions than rule.   
  
Once dressed, Cas sat at the table, taking a coffee and opening up the box. There were, in fact several doughnuts inside.   
  
“The long ones are maple-bacon,” Sam said, not looking up. Cas grabbed one, and closed the box.   
  
“Thank you, Sam,” Cas said.   
  
“Sam waved him off, sipping his coffee and he clicked at his screen.   
  
Dean stirred on the bed, and Sam balled up a napkin. He tossed it and it bounced off Dean’s head. Dean sat up with a jerk. “Wake up,” Sam said. “I have breakfast.”   
  
Dean yawned, and got out of bed, sauntering over and sitting at the table, stark naked. Sam covered his eyes with a muttered, “Fuck, dude, for real?” and Cas just smiled as his lover leaned down to give him a kiss. He went to sit, and Sam grabbed the box.   
  
“No,” he said. “I’m not eating breakfast with your naked ass. Go put on pants or you don’t get doughnuts.”   
  
“Bitch,” Dean snorted, but found a pair of jeans and pulled them on. As Dean happily stuffed his face, Cas sipped his coffee and hummed. They would be leaving today, and would be sticking around just long enough to figure out their next destination.   
  
Cas felt the room expand just a fraction, and Gabriel was sitting at the table with them, licking the whipped cream off the top of a large hot chocolate. Cas watched as Sam looked up, and they exchanged a fond glance. While being in love with Sam had calmed the archangel to a certain degree, he certainly hadn’t tamed him. In fact, Cas was pretty sure Sam had even helped in a few cases of ironic justice, but Cas never said so to Dean. It was worth is to see that happy look on his brother’s face.   
  
“Hey,” Sam said. “I just got an email from Kurt. Looks like their Glee Club is having some kind of concert in a few days.”   
  
Dean’s chewing slowed. “We’re not that far from Lima,” he said around the doughnut. He swallowed, and continued, “We can be there in, what, a day? Day and a half?”   
  
“I would like to see Kurt and Noah, both,” Cas said.   
  
“Sweet,” Sam said, and started to type. “I’ll let him know we’re coming.”   
  
“He’ll never know what hit him,” Gabriel cracked.   
  
Cas smiled. It was good to be home. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [How I Spent My Summer Vacation and Other Myths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/422173) by [Firefox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefox/pseuds/Firefox)




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